


Ten

by ava_kay



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Depressed Newt, Keeping it PG-13, M/M, Mental Illnesses, Mental Institutions, OCD, OCD newt, Sad, halluciantions thomas, may or may not be death, mental health, newtmas - Freeform, newtmas angst, not fluff but sometimes cute, psychiatric patients newt and thomas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-02-26 12:52:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 49
Words: 144,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13236135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ava_kay/pseuds/ava_kay
Summary: For seventeen year old Newt, the number ten is everything.Ten steps. Ten times you must snap your fingers. Ten nods of your head. Ten.When he's put in a mental institution for his extreme OCD, depression and anxiety, he meets some unlikely friends.And possibly the boy he's been looking for his whole life.But can he trust him?WARNING: content may be TRIGGERING for some (deals with various mental illnesses)p.s.- if newt says anything that seems ignorant towards mental illnesses, please know I'm trying to portray a teenager who doesn't understand yet, and that he eventually will understand!





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR trigger warning for the themes exploring mental illnesses. This includes anxiety attacks, EDs, su*cide, panic attacks, hallucinations, depression, overdosing, etc. Proceed with caution please.

Ten.

    I walk ten steps then stop. My mind races. Quickly, I snap my fingers ten times. Looking around me, I see the other kids in the hallway. They all try not to look at me. I see their faces; they know not to stare at me, so they just walk. Not a readable expression in sight.

    Looking back down again, I continue walking to class. I take another ten steps and repeat the process. Again, and again, and again.

    My school gave me a special pass that allows me to be late to class, so I don't worry when I'm the only one left in the hallway and the bells already rung. A school administrator walks past and nods in my direction. I purse my lips and nod once.

    Oh man. I wait till he's not looking then nod nine more times. I used to cry when I had to do more unexpected rounds of ten, but its been so long I can't even find it in my heart to cry anymore.

    It all started in freshman year. I had a decent amount of friends back then. We hung out, laughed. Like normal teenage boys. Then it all changed.

    Close to the middle of the year, I started doing things differently. Just small at first, like tapping my pen in even numbers, fixing books at the library to stand straight.

    Then by the time I was in tenth grade, I had started my tens. Its not all tens, though. I have to fix certain things that I see if they aren't arranged how I like it. Also, I've recently taken to cleaning and dusting my room every day. Things like that.

    I told my friends in sophomore year. At first they acted like it was no big deal, but I could tell they were uncomfortable. So, naturally, I cut myself off from them. They don't need a freak like me around. Besides, my OCD had already become my life.

    Finally I make it to my class, twelfth grade english. I'm five minutes late, as usual, and the class looks up when I walk in. As usual. I take long steps to get to my desk, making sure I get there in less than ten.

    I get there in seven, sitting down and lightly tapping my feet to make it ten. Ms. Baret starts talking so nobody hears me when I snap my fingers. This whole thing has become a routine. I think anyone can guess that I like routine.

    I feel my phone buzz in my pocket and I take it out. The text is from my mother, asking if I need my anxiety medication.

    My mother likes to check all my pill bottles to make sure I'm taking them. I'm not sure if she doesn't believe me that I do take them or if she just doesn't want me forgetting, but either way she's obsessed with checking up on me. I guess its not a bad thing, but she's very overly worried about me. About everything. I think I get my anxiety from her.

    My father, on the other hand, is very uncomfortable with my... situation. He likes to avoid the topic. He'll pay for my meds, and all my appointments, but he doesn't quite enjoy discussing it openly. We don't even talk much, actually. I don't mind it. He's not the most interesting man.

    I quickly text my mom saying I don't need my medication, putting a heart next to it. The heart will probably calm her down.

    " _Newton_ ," Ms. Baret says my name in a tame yet warning voice. I quickly look up, terrified. She's standing next to me, the rest of the class busy working.

    "I'm collecting the homework. Also, if it wasn't an emergency, I've said no phones in class," she says. My heart is at a steady rate of forty thousand a minute. I reach into my backpack and grab my homework, shakily handing it to her. She takes it without even glancing at it.

    "I-I'm sorry Ms. Baret. My mom texted me about my anxiety medication," I tell her. Her face softens, clearly embarrassed.

    "Well, then, thats fine. Tell your mother I said hello. The class is doing questions one through eleven on page two hundred and fifty three of the textbook," she quickly murmurs before walking away.

    I shut my eyes tightly and take a deep breath. Partially because of that encounter, partially because I have to do questions one through eleven. _Eleven_. Thats torture for me. Couldn't they have just taken off _one_ question?

    Maybe I should have taken those pills this morning.

    I open my textbook and try to ignore the question numbers. Slowly, I answer the questions about the novel we're reading. I haven't really been paying attention lately. It feels so unnecessary. I've always enjoyed reading, though. Throughout my childhood I read quite a lot. So I do my work. I always do. For all my classes, I try my hardest. Its just become so hard.

    The questions are pretty easy so far. Eventually I get to question ten and it calms me slightly. A nice full ten.

    Then I remember.

    I finish ten, a simple yes or no question, and bring myself to stare at the eleventh question. Its long and very complicated. I don't want to say anything, but it's physically hurting me to look at this. If it was fifteen I'd be fine. If it was twenty eight I'd be fine. But its just one number off from the perfect one...

    I close my textbook. I can't bring myself to do it. A sense of shame washes over me. Why can't I just answer one stupid question? Why is this such a problem?

    Scribbling a quick 'sorry' at the bottom of my ten answers, I put my paper at the corner of my desk. I use my arms as a pillow and put them on the desk, putting my head on them. Despite cleaning my room all of the time, I'm not a germaphobe. Otherwise I'd point out how many germs that desk must hold.

    Finally Ms. Baret comes and collects our papers. I feel my heart threatening to lurch out of my chest as she gets to me.

    When I hear her approaching, I lift my paper up to her without making eye contact. I feel her next to me, but when she takes my paper I still jump a little. I really hope she doesn't notice till she gets to her desk. She stops, looking at my paper.

    My breath gets caught in my lungs and I look up. She sighs, and looks over at me before continuing collecting the papers.

    But I'm stuck frozen, staring in the same place.

    I'm such a disappointment. I'm such a waste. I'm insane.

    I bury my face in my hands, trying to breathe deeply. I can feel the other kids trying not to look at me. Removing my hands from my face, I look around. They're all looking down or at each other or chatting quietly.

    The rest of the class goes by quickly, just a regular vocabulary lesson. When the bell rings, I get up and collect my things. Aiming to leave the class as soon as possible, I start my walk. _One, two, three, four_ -

    "Newton!" I hear. I mark four in my head, then turn my head around. Its almost painful. "Stop by the guidance office. Your counselor left a packet there your parents wanted."

    "Okay," I say, instead of nodding. I know how that would end. Turning, I leave the classroom.

    Walking down the hall with everyone else is a challenge sometimes. With no friends as a distraction, I'm really focused on my tens. So when someone knocks into me, it's really annoying. It's manageable though. Unlike this.

    I reach the door to get to the guidance office, but remember I wanted to go to the room on the other side to get the work I missed from Mr. Kerp. Then theres more hallway and it makes me want to bolt, forget both tasks and not have to worry about the steps or interactions. So I just stand. Right in the middle of the intersection and busy hallway I stand, frozen again. I could just walk into the other room and grab the work from the folder but then I'd be on the wrong side of the hallway. To the guidance is 4 steps, to the classroom is 8 steps.

    Kids are coming from every direction, knocking me over, messing up my count. I can't tell if I'm on three, or seven, or nine, or even one.

    My heart feels like its about to burst out of my chest. I keep looking around as if it'll help me. Nobody stops. Of course, why would they? Who wants to help the psycho boy?

    With a final blow to the side, I collapse in the middle of the hallway. Some kids shuffle past and one of their sneakers hits me in the forehead. Finally, some people notice and stare at me. I put a hand to my face and it comes back soaked with tears and a little bit of blood from the wound.

    I can't hear anything now, I can just feel my body shaking from my sobbing. I haven't cried in months so its almost foreign to me.

    Looking up, I see one of my old friends, Alby, staring. We make eye contact and he quickly turns around. I think he's going to leave, but he goes into guidance.

    Suddenly, my guidance counselor runs out toward me. She helps me up, and waves all the kids off. I'm still crying and I feel like someone had just placed the weight of a building on my head.

    She takes me into her office and sits me down next to her on a small couch. I then remember my tens and snap my head up.

    "Did- Did I do my tens? How many steps?" I say through tears, panicking.

    "Newton, calm dow-"

    " _How many steps_?" I yell, louder than I intended.

    "I don't know," she says.

    And then I black out.


	2. two

I wake up in the nurses office.

    I don't open my eyes, but instead listen to the hushed voices I recognize as my parents and guidance counselor.

    "-seeming to get worse and worse. I don't know what to do," I can hear my mom say.

    "This could be a good option. I don't know if it'll fix him-"

    "He doesn't need fixing! He's a child, a _human being_ , he doesn't need to be _fixed_. He just needs help," my mom cuts my dad off.

    "It won't cure him completely, they don't guarantee that. But they certainly can help. I've heard of several success cases," my guidance counselor, Mrs. Marina, says.

    "It just feels like a drastic measure. I don't know. I want whats best for him," my mom says mournfully.

    What're they talking about? More medication? More tests? No, they'd be fine with that. What else can they do? Nothing can fix me. My dad's right. I need to be fixed. But I don't think it's possible.

    "I think we should tame it before it gets any worse. Its scary, as a parent, for your child to go through this. But you have to see it from his point of view," Mrs. Marina says.

    The room falls silent and I decide its a good time to "wake up". Slowly, I sit up. My parents and Mrs. Marina turn to look at me. I rub my eye, discovering my pounding headache. I feel a bandage on my forehead and drop my hand.

    "Newt, sweetie," my mom says, getting up to sit next to me. She rubs my back and examines me. "How are you feeling?" she asks.

    What a dumb question. How do I feel? I feel awful. I feel like a waste of time. I feel like garbage. I feel like my head is about to beat itself in.

    "Fine. Just a little headache," I say. My mom nods, and moves my hair out of my face. I try not to wince.

    "Here, I brought these," she says. Its my medications I take after school plus a pill for my headache. And on the side, three pieces of rice. There are seven pills and three pieces of rice.

    "Thank you," I say, taking all ten of the objects. She hands me a water bottle and I start taking everything.

    We got the rice about three months ago. I usually have six pills in the morning, six after school. The six started bothering me so my mom decided to get me rice to swallow too. This isn't even OCD anymore. This is just... crazy.

    The room is silent till I take everything. Then my dad sighs. Then my mom glares at him. Then Mrs. Marina clears her throat. We all look at her.

    "Should we talk in another room or with Newton?" Mrs. Marina says. My mom looks at me.

    "He has a right to give us his opinion. He's seventeen. He should be in on the conversation," my mom says.

    "What're you guys talking about?" I ask. My slight eavesdropping hadn't cleared anything up for me.

    "We were wondering..." my mom starts, avoiding my eyes and looking at Mrs. Marina and my father.

    "Yeah?" I say.

    "Well theres this place, not too far, that's kind of like a center for kids with what you have. Your age. Just regular kids," my mom says. A center? What does she mean by center?

    "Like an insane asylum?" I ask. My moms eyes widen.

    "No! No, no, not like that at all," she says, waving her hands frantically.

    "Then what is it?" I ask. She hesitates.

    "It’s a place where you go to be with other kids like yourself," she says. I don't know how to interpret what shes saying. Like a support group? No, she would've said so. We've already been to one. Then what?

    "Mom, just tell me what it is. For real. No sugar coating," I say.

    "It’s like a camp. They help you get... better. Its like-"

    "An asylum?" I say, my tone stinging with hurt and annoyance. I didn't intend for it to sound like this, but I can see a wave of shock come over my moms face.

    "I... Don't think of it that way," she says.

    "But thats what it is, isn't it? You all think I'm crazy. I am. Don't think you're hiding anything from me," I say. I never act out like this, and its scaring me. Obviously its scaring my mother too.

    "Newt..." she says at a loss for words.

    "Newton, we don't think you're crazy. We just want to make sure you're helped so you can get to a point where you're happy," Mrs. Marina says.

    We're all silent for a minute. In an attempt to shut down the idea, I calm down and ask my mom a question.

    "How much money is this? How could we possibly afford it?" I ask.

    "We can afford it. Don't worry, Newtie," she says, using my old nickname. Ugh.

    "So I'd stay overnight? Without you?" I say, hopefully playing on her mama bear side. She nods.

    "Yes. But I can visit as often as I want," she says. This is tough.

    "You'll also make friends. It'll be good for you. Think of it as a camp," Mrs. Marina says.

    "I don't like this," I say quietly to my mom. Its useless.

    "Newt, just try it, please? Its obviously getting worse. I don't know what I can do to help anymore," she says. I close my eyes and lean up against the wall, my head still pounding. My mom and I are sitting on the hard metal bed the nurse has, my guidance counselor and dad at the desk. I look up at the clock. Five. I've been out for three hours? And all because of my silly problems. Am I really this bad?

    "Can I think about it?" I ask. My mom and Mrs. Marina nod. My dad has just remained silent. As usual. "Okay."

    We get home an hour later. My parents let me do my usual ten walks, ten snaps. They just walk ahead of me and let me go at my own pace.

    I don't want to be such a burden anymore.

    We all sit in our living room uncomfortably. There wasn't much conversation in the car. The only effort was from my mother, who asked if my headache had gone away.

    Finally my father stands up. My mother and I snap our head in his directions, expecting him to speak. But of course he doesn't. He walks into the kitchen and leaves my mother and I alone.

    "Newt, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but I think its best. Even for just a week," my mom says. I look at her.

    "Mom... I..." I start, trying to find the words to describe how I feel. Truth is, I really don't know how I feel. I guess maybe a rehabilitation center, well, a "mental institution" could help me. No school, no guidance counselors, no worries. It would be like a vacation. Everything decided for me.

    Plus my OCD would be considered _average_ there. I could do my routines in peace. I can't be the worst there is, can I? Yes, going solidifies my non-normalness, but I already knew that. Plus, it would make my mom happy. I'm sure my dad would like to have a break from me.

    "Please just think about-"

    "I'll do it," I say. My mom stops her sentence and stares at me for a moment, before coming to sit next to me. This usually means hugging.

    As if on cue, she reaches out and hugs me. I lean into it.

    "Sweetie I promise this will be good for you," she says into my neck. I bite my lip.

    "Yeah.”


	3. three

I look down at my bag, packed neatly and sitting in the middle of my bed. There are thousands of butterflies in my stomach.

    We leave in ten minutes, which is enough time to dust my room some more. I pick up the duster off of my dresser and start dusting. I've grown used to doing my walking routine around my room. Its distracting though, while I'm doing chores.

    Theres a knock at my room door, and I turn around to see my mom opening the door.

    "Newt, someone came to see you!" my mom says, stepping aside.

    Entering the room is my "friend" Teresa. She walks toward me and stops when she gets three feet from me. My mom smiles and closes the door.

    Teresa is the girl that lives next door to us. My mom has been setting us up since we were babies. We used to have three play dates a week, then when we got older we carpooled to school.

    Truth is, I think my mother wants us to get married some day. She wanted us to be high school sweethearts and ride off into the sunset.

    Honestly, I don't like her that way. I can't bring myself to see her as anything other than a friend. I've never been the one to have a crush on anyone. Even when I was little, I only had three or four kiddie crushes on some girls here and there before middle school. But I never liked her that way, and the concept makes me quite uncomfortable.

    She goes to a separate school, a private school. So since high school started I haven't seen her as much as I used to. An occasional family dinner or barbecue, but thats it.

    "Hi," I say. We haven't talked in quite a while but our mothers are close so I'm sure she knows all about me. So now, I'm not sure of what to say. Not that I ever am.

    I think back to the last time I _did_ know what to say to a friend. It must have been a few years ago. Alby. I had a few friends, but he was the one I was truly myself with. And now he's a stranger to me too.

    "Hey," she says. Like a meter in my head, I remember I'm on step seven. So I complete the final three steps and sit down on my bed. She follows suit while I snap ten times, the sound like nails on a chalkboard in the momentary silence.

    "So, uh, how are you?" she asks. I look over at her and raise my eyebrows, and she laughs. I smile a bit too, and then I stare up at my wall.

    "I've been better. What about you?" I ask. Thank god my mom gave me slightly more than my usual anxiety medication dosage this morning. I'd be dying even more right now.

    "I'm okay," she says. Theres a long awkward pause after that.

    "So I'm guessing you heard about me?"

    "Oh. Um. Yeah, I did. My mom told me."

    I readjust myself on the bed and put my head in my hands, hoping she'll take the hint.

    "I thought so."

    "I think it's a good thing. I think it'll be good for you."

    Oh, and who made you the expert on whats good for me? She has nothing to "think".

    "Yeah. Okay, I have to finish packing, but it was nice seeing you again," I lie, finding an excuse for her to leave before I get frustrated. She nods and gets up, crossing the room. She looks back at me one last time before exiting.

    I sigh, and run my hand through my hair. I know whats coming next.

    My mom opens the door and walks in with a sheepish smile.

    "Well that wasn't long. What did you guys talk about? Do you like her new haircut? It makes her look really pretty, doesn't it?" she bombards me with a thousand questions.

    "Uh, yeah," I say, my heart rate escalating. These questions make me uncomfortable.

    "Aw, how sweet! So are you done with packing?" she asks, sitting next to me.

    "Yeah," I say. She hesitates before looking at me.

    "Newt, I really wish you didn't have to do this. I really do. I'll miss you so much."

    "So then why are you making me go?" I ask. I can see tears in her eyes. I decide to drop it. "Wheres Dad?"

    "He's ready to go. We just need your suitcase and we can leave," she says. I grab my suitcase and stand up.

 

Ten minutes later we're all in the car. I'm in the back and my parents are in the front, my mom occasionally giving me glances from the front seat. They range from sympathetic, to sad, to happy, to loving.

    I could always drive myself, if I was allowed to. Last year I went to take drivers education, but they turned me down. Apparently my OCD is too distracting and could cause accidents. I don't blame them, its true. It would be unsafe for me to drive right now.

    "Mom?" I ask. She turns around.

    "Yes sweetie?"

    "What's gonna happen with school?"

    She nods, keeping her smile plastered.

    "Theres classes you can take there, for the more... normal kids. Like you. Don't worry about it. You don't even have to take them if you don't want to," she says.

    "Alright. But how will 'educated in a mental institution for a semester' look on a college application?" I ask. I'm sure I'll have universities knocking down my door to get me after this. If I even want to go to college. It's pretty pointless. Maybe I won't take the classes.

    "Newt, don't worry about it please. It'll all be fine," she says. She's acting strange. I wonder if she took some of my anxiety meds.

    "Okay."

    Theres a stretch of silence, so I decide to close my eyes. Once I get there there'll probably be a bunch of social interactions I'm not ready for. I'll want to be rested.

 

An hour my mom calls my name from the front seat, making me wake up. I look out the window and see a sign.

**TED IMMENTY MENTAL INSTITUTION**

    "Ted Immenty?" I ask.

    "The man who founded it. It was all in the pamphlet I told you to read," my mother says. "Are you nervous?"

    "I'm always nervous. But yeah," I say. I look to my dad, who most likely hasn't spoken a word this whole trip. I would talk to him, but I don't know what I would say.

    "Well just relax and sit tight. Your tour isn't till tomorrow and we get to stay for a bit after you check in since you're under eighteen," my mom says. I lean my head back again, _trying_ to ignore all of my thoughts.

    Odds are I'll be the most sane one here. So, I'll probably keep to myself. Maybe find a hobby. Maybe I'll get back into reading. I like routine, it's probably the main structure in this place.

    I didn't sleep much last night. I tossed and turned and worried. My mom said they give you sleeping pills here, I could probably use those along with everything else I'm taking.

    Thank god for the medication, though. Everyone gets a roommate. That'll get annoying. What if they're messy? How will I possibly deal with that? Hopefully they'll be slightly sane, and really quiet.

    Honestly, I wouldn't mind a friend. I haven't had one for a while, and if we're both crazy then theres no ruining each others lives, right?

    I was never very anti-social before all my problems came about, but not talking to anyone has become a sort of habit. It's just easier that way. Occasionally I'll get a text asking for homework or something, but thats about it.

    My dad pulls up to the entrance, and my mom starts unbuckling herself.

    "You guys get out here, I'll go park then meet you inside," he says. My mother and I get out and start heading inside.

    Ted Immenty Mental Institution is a several section building. Theres the main entrance hall which is big in size but not tall. Then there are several buildings in the back. I guess they're for younger girls, younger boys, older women, older guys, just old people, and the bigger back building must be for the too insane to be in a normal section. The main building is white, with an eerie hospital feeling to it. The others look brick with white signs and overhangs. Overall, not a homey feeling.

    We enter the main building and I immediately look around the room. I see people ranging from teens to their eighties. Theres a lady to my right in about her forties rocking back and forth, chewing obsessively on her fingernails. To my right, theres a boy in his twenties humming 'If You're Happy and You Know It', with suspicious eyes darting back and forth.

    More interesting than that, there's a lot of people that just look... average. No visible strange habits. Just sitting down and looking at their phones, or filling out paperwork. Some shake their legs, some look a bit somber, but other than that, normal. That's probably how I look before I reach ten steps.

    My mother and I make our way towards the front desk while I try to contain my anxiety and fear. I quickly look down at my hands which are shaking rapidly.

    I walk with long steps, trying to make it ten strides to the front desk.

    The inside has the same eerie hospital feeling as the outside. My mom approaches the lady at the front desk while I trail behind her, too afraid to say anything.

    "Hello, I'm the mother of Newton-"

    "Ah, yes, we've been expecting your son. Hello, Newton," the lady interrupts my mom, looking past her at me. I take my final and tenth step forward towards the desk and start my ten snaps while I speak.

    "Hello," I say. My loud snaps resonate around the room and I try to make them quieter, fighting the urge to wince. I finally make it to ten, and the lady nods at me.

    "Newton if you wouldn't mind, we'd like you to answer some questions. With or without your mother," the lady says. For some reason I get a creepy tone from this woman. She looks to be in her early sixties with curly short blonde hair and beady eyes. Sounds nice enough, but she doesn't scream warm and comfort to me. Like a grandma ready to scold you for anything.

    Or maybe it's just the fact that I'm a mental patient.

    "Uh, yeah, with my mom" I say, my hands still vibrating. The lady waves us behind the desk and into an office then pulls out a piece of paper and begins to read off the questions.

    "History of mental illness within your family?" she asks, looking at me. I look at my mom and she shakes her head no.

    "Suicidal?" she asks. My eyes widen and I quickly shake my head no, repeating the gesture nine more times after.

    The lady makes a check on her paper and looks back up.

    "Medication... maybe you and your mother should fill this out. I'll leave it here," she says, getting up and walking out. I'm thankful for her absence and turn to my mom.

    She's already picked up the paper and is writing the various names of medication and checking off boxes about my thoughts and behaviours. Whats funny, is that she doesn't really know about my thoughts. Not that I'd tell her, let alone these doctor people.

    After several minutes of deafening silence, my mother gets up and motions for me to follow. I start my ten in my head and follow on her command. We give the papers to the lady behind the desk and she nods a thank you.

    "Dr. Ava Paige will take you to where you need to go," the lady says. My mom and I turn to see a lady with a white coat and blonde hair tucked into a bun. She seems not to be too much younger than the desk lady but certainly taller. She smiles at me and it gives me chills. Why is it that everyone here creeps me out?

    "Follow me," she says, taking the papers from the lady and leading us out a back door to the outside. We all walk in silence, my mom holding on to me and waiting for me every time I have to snap. Dr. Ava Paige catches on quickly and starts waiting for me too.

    It bothers me, like I'm constantly holding everyone back.

    It’s October here, and its always chilly this time of year. I'd say its about fifty degrees, but with a ton of wind. I look down at my thin white sweater's sleeves and try to pull them down.

    Finally the lady stops in front of one of the several centers. I look up at it and notice some key things.

    The windows are barred off, making them look like prison windows. It's understandable, but not exactly welcoming. Theres no visible sign that theres been any life in the building for years. It seems cold and solitary.

    "This will be your building. Its for boys ranging from fourteen to twenty five, but the fourteen to eighteen section is separate from the eighteen to twenty five section," she says, continuing up the stairs. I have to pause to snap while on the stairs but get to the top without issue. We're led inside a small hallway. Then, we're let out into a large main room.

    The thing I see next causes me to freeze.


	4. four

" _Let go of me_!" he shouts. Theres a boy about fifteen feet in front of me, being held off by security, trying to reach another boy. They both look around my age, give or take a year. The taller of the two snarls at the security guards and kicks at them while swinging in the air.

    There’s so much shouting, I'm not even sure how to respond. Dr. Ava Paige walks up to the other, non-violent boy and puts a hand on his shoulder.

    I look over to him. He has short brown hair, and a dumbfounded face. Confused, curious, and a little sad. Dr. Ava Paige moves him and starts speaking. While she speaks, I watch the boy look around before locking eyes with me. It’s just for a second, but it freezes me in place even more than before. She steers him away and tells him something I can't make out, before he starts walking away into a long white hallway with doors lining it on either side.

    "Oh yeah, walk away!" the large boy yells. He looks like an evil cartoon character with short buzzed down hair and eyebrows that look permanently angry. His face is twisted in rage and he finally manages to push off the security guards. Just as Dr. Ava Paige starts to run back to the large boy, he sees me.

    My eyes widen in fear as he starts towards me. I try to run, but I feel my legs turning into jelly beneath me. Just before he's in my face, the doctor comes to my rescue and holds him back and my mother takes me and pushes me back.

    The boy complies but turns to give me one piece of deranged advice before leaving. His face has pain written all over it as he mutters the words.

    "Run while you can."

 

Dr. Ava Paige apologizes for the "mishap" and takes me to my room quickly. She just goes on as if this is just a normality. Which, in this place, it probably is. We reach the front door and she looks into the small, thin window on the side of it.

    "Your roommate isn't here right now, but will probably be back soon. I think you'll like him. Follow me," she says, leading us into the room. My mother has had a death grip on my elbow since the whole fiasco with those boys seconds ago, and seems to refuse letting me go.

    We walk into the room and she tells me the right side of the room is mine. I sit on the bed and snap my ten times while looking at the other side. Theres two or three video game posters, a couple of books that look untouched, a board game, and a messy undone bed. It amazes me how much they let the boy have.

    The room itself is kinda small, but I wasn't expecting otherwise. Its an odd difference from the hallway. Its like walking from a hospital corridor right into a living room. Theres two beds, some shelves, a small chair in the corner, and a dresser looking type thing.

    "Who is he?" My mother asks.

    "His roommate? His name is Chuck. He's a sweet one. He's here for having a slightly routine panic disorder," Dr. Ava Paige replies.

    "Routine?" I ask.

    "Well, not really, I'm not actually supposed to be telling you this. It’s just every day. They're easy enough to snap him out of, but it's followed by a tantrum. He's never really in here when they happen, so don't worry. And he has night terrors sometimes," she replies. Wow, how fun.

    "But he's a nice kid?" my mother asks.

    "Yes, definitely. Only fourteen," Dr. Ava Paige says. Fourteen? Thats kinda sad.

    "Oh," I say, at a loss for words.

    "Okay well, I'll let you two stay here for a bit and get yourselves situated, and you can stay here as long as you want as long as its before ten, miss," Dr. Ava Paige says, inching towards the door.

    "Okay, thank you," my mom says as she leaves the room.

    "Should I unpack?" I ask my mom, turning towards her to see she's about to forcefully pull me into a hug. I just comply, wrapping my arms around her.

    "I love you sweetie. Do you think you'll be okay here? If not I'll take you home right now," she says into my shoulder. I can sense a sniffle in her voice and it makes me want to tear up, but I can't start crying now.

    As much as I want to say "Yes, get me out of here now,", I can't. I want to get better for her, and I don't want to be a burden anymore.

    "I'm okay, Mom," I say.

    "Are you sure? You're not crazy, you don't have to be here," she says. I laugh a little and pull away.

    "You and I both know I'm not normal. Lets just see how I do here. That Chuck kid sounds nice," I say. My mind drifts back to the boy in the hallway, the lost-looking one. He didn't seem to be foaming at the mouth like that other guy. And they all seem to be my peers, so it can't be too bad.

    "Okay. I'm so sorry, sweetie. I really am," my mother says, sniffling and wiping away the tears. She hugs me once more and squeezes me. I squeeze back.

    "Now, let’s get unpacking," I say, trying to be lighthearted.

    While she gets my suitcase and opens it, I let my mind wander. I'm in a mental institution. People don't come here for nothing, if you're here, it's serious. I'm sure nobody life threatening is here, because they'd have a separate place. But still, how bad do you have to be?

    And another thing... wheres my father? I'm pretty sure he was supposed to be here. Granted we just got in about five minutes ago, but still. I'd be surprised if he actually showed up instead of sitting in the car.

    I could see him waiting. My mom will probably leave at around eight because, despite what they said, its a pretty long drive. About an hour. They like going to bed at ten, as do I, so I don't think she'll stay. Thats four hours from now, and I think he'd rather sit in the car for four hours then be surrounded by the reminder of my problems.

    Mom tried to convince me that its hard for him because he loves me, but I don't think anyones buying that. I love him and all, but we just don't get along.

    "Newt, are you okay?" my mom says, putting the last of my shirts away.

    "Yeah, yeah. I'm good," I say. I assume its not convincing, because my mother's face drops. She goes to say something, but stops herself before looking back at my suitcase.

    "You really packed lightly, didn't you?" she asks. I feel like theres a metaphor about baggage there somewhere, but I'm too tired to find it.

    "Yeah," I say. The only extra things I brought were some books, a few old non-digital games to keep my mind entertained, and I snuck in a little dvd player with a couple of my old favorite movies in there.

    "Alright, well, thats it. I'll put the suitcase behind the dresser," she says. She turns back to me. "And you're sure you'll be okay? I can convince them to let me stay the night. Or I can just drive up here every day. That could-"

    "Mom," I say, she looks at me. "I'll be fine. Don't go to all that trouble."

    "I just want you to be happy again," she says. This feels like a knife in my heart, and I look down at my hands. It must be so hard for her to see me like this, but thinking about it just makes my depression worse. I don't want to be like this, I want to get better for her. I want to get better to fix my relationship with my dad. I want to get better to make them happy again.

    I want to say something, but I'm afraid I'll start crying so I stay silent.

    "Lets, uh, go look around some more?" she suggests. I hesitate, but get up and make my way over to the door.

    She opens it for me, and we walk back out to see my father walking towards us.


	5. five

It was awkward at first, but we're now all eating the food they served for dinner in my room. My dad's stayed mostly silent, but asked some questions on the rest of the tour.

    We saw the dining hall I'll usually have to eat in, we saw where I'll take my medicine, and they showed me how to contact my parents if needed. Theres a "common area" of sorts. Apparently, since this is the more sane non-lethal section, we're all allowed to hang out. Plus, we get some days out. Like field trips. How fun.

    My mom's been asking me every three seconds if I want to back out, but my mind is made up. I can't be a burden anymore.

    Whats great about this place, is that on the tour, the guide didn't get annoyed with me. My dad rolled his eyes a bit but otherwise I've kinda been golden. It'd be nice to have a place where I'm not constantly judged for who I am.

    But that's not my focus. My focus is to get better.

    There really isn't all that much to the place, just basic stuff. Bathrooms down the hallway, classes that I don't wanna take in a separate wing, and just some other things I ought to know. We didn't pass anyone else on the tour, because apparently they're at their classes. It's probably learning how to draw a circle or something, but either way I'd much rather not deal with a school-ish environment again.

    My mother is rambling about the various programs available to me and how great the therapist is, and I just smile and occasionally say "mmhm" while my dad complains that the food tastes gross.

    I'm actually anxious (surprise, surprise,) about meeting my roommate. What if I hate him? I've grown a disliking of most people, but what if I can't stand the kid? He's only fourteen so he can't be too bad, it's not like he'll kill me.

    As if my mind was read, the door opens and a little boy with baby fat and rosy cheeks walks in, innocent face but looks like he's been through a lot. He seems tired, but alert.

    "Oh! You must be Newt. I'm Chuck, your roommate," he says. I stand up as if I was just caught in someones room.

    "Uh, yeah. I'm- uh- Newt, yeah," I say while mentally slamming my head against a wall.

    "Yeah," Chuck says with a laugh. "I'm trying to get away from this boy Ben. He's shouting again. You'll get used to it though," he says, plopping himself down on his bed.

    I turn to my parents and my mom is smiling.

    "Hello, Chuck! I'm Newt's mother, you seem like a very sweet boy," my mom says. I sit back down on the bed and Chuck turns back.

    "Hello! Thank you," Chuck says, and I let out a breath I seemed to be holding, relieved he's a good kid.

    "You seem normal. Why are you here?" my father jumps in. I wince while my mother hits him.

    "I'm so sorry," I say quickly. Chuck laughs again, a surprisingly joyous sound, looking to my dad.

    "Thanks, but I'm here for panic attacks and a couple of other things. I'm glad I look normal though," he says.

    "Newt, we'll go learn some more things from Dr. Ava Paige. We'll leave you two alone," my mom says, grabbing my dad and walking out.

    As soon as the door closes I turn to Chuck, my heart racing a thousand miles an hour. "I'm so sorry about them," I say.

    "Hey, don't worry about it. You seem great. Also, since you're the newbie, I'm going to need to teach you some things. First off, how old are you?" he asks.

    "Uh, seventeen," I say.

    "Three years difference, not too bad. Anyways, I learned everything from the best so I'll share my knowledge with you," he says.

    "About what?" I ask.

    "About TIMI!" Chuck says excitedly.

    "Timmy?" I ask.

    "TIMI. T-I-M-I. Its what we call Ted Immenty. Lesson one", Chuck says.

    "Oh, okay," I say, tapping my foot in tens to calm my nerves.

   "Alright well, I'm guessing you'll want to spend some more time with your family before they leave. And don't worry, I already had today's panic attack," he says. I'm shocked when he says this, almost as a joke. I guess my face must have shown it because he laughs. "I use humor to cope. Its every single day, so I might as well get used to it."

    "Yeah," I say. I get up, trying to take eight steps in here so I could finish them outside. I succeed and take my other two steps outside then stop to snap ten times. I see my parents talking to the nurse at the medication window down the hall so I make my way over. Slowly.

    Eventually they see me and dismiss themselves, walking over.

    "Hi, sweetie. Your roommate seems very nice." my mother says. I nod, then groan and nod nine more times. My mom looks sad. Pity sad. She hugs me and I hug back. While she squeezes me, my father stands beside us awkwardly watching.

    When my mom pulls away I turn to my dad, heart racing, and without putting too much thought into it, I hug him. The most bold thing I've done in a long time. I can't think of how many months its been since I hugged my father. Its been forever. But this hug is a promise, a promise that he'll want it when he sees me next. That I'll get better. That he'll be proud of me.

    Before long he puts his arms around me and squeezes for a second before patting me on the back. I'm faced away from my mom because I'm sure she's crying, and if I saw her crying it'd be too much for me.

    I pull away and look at my dad. His face is unreadable as he looks back.

    "Take care, Dad." I say, choking on my words. My dad nods once and I turn to my mom.

    "I guess you'll want to be going," I say. As suspected, she's crying enough tears to fill a swimming pool. She nods and grabs me for a hug again.

    "Are you sure you want to do this?" she says.

    "Yes," I whisper, while my head is buried in her shoulder.

    "I love you so much, Newt. Call any time you want. If they have a problem, tell them to call me," she says.

    "Okay, Mom," I say. She releases me and looks at me like she's trying to take me all in. Like she's trying to memorize me. Like its the last time she'll see me.

    "I love you so much."

    "I love you too," I say. My mom gives me a sympathetic smile.

    "Go get the car, I'll walk Newt back to his room," my mom says, and my dad walks away, towards the entrance.

    We walk towards my room while I start feeling sick with worry, like usual, despite my anti-anxiety pills. She stops for me every ten steps, and after some time we get to my room.

    She turns to me and hugs me one last time before wiping her eyes.

    "I'll talk to you soon, Mom," I say, trying to keep myself together.

    "Talk to you soon," She says, taking one last look before I walk into my room and shut the door behind me.


	6. six

A short while later, I'm lying down in my room, Chuck in his bed, me in mine. We get on nicely, he's mature for his age. But it makes me sad when I see kids like that. Nobody should have to grow up that fast, its not fair that he has to have this. He's about the age I was when this started. Theres a life he's missing out on because of this, all of us are.

    "So anyway, you'll make friends here. I was nervous my first day. But you have me, and I'll tell you who to avoid and who's cool. Like my best friend, you'll like him. He's about your age. And theres a couple of other people you'll get along with. We're as normal as you'll find here. We actually call ourselves the Normals, but they're gonna have to judge you for themselves," Chuck explains.

    Judge me? I wasn't aware you get judged in a mental institution. My mind drifts back to the boy I saw in the hallway earlier. I wonder if he's crazy or or a 'Normal'. I'm crazy, but my minds not gone. Not yet, anyway.

    "Oh, okay," I say, unsure of what else to say. If you've never spoken to someone that you just met in a mental institution, it's kind of like walking on a tightrope. You never know whats offensive or too far or what will trigger them. So I just try to say as little as possible. He seems very laid back, so I think offending him would be near impossible. But still, I don't know what triggers him.

    Chuck turns to face me. "What kind of name is Newt?" he asks.

    My face goes red and I turn to face him. "Uh, I uh, my parents-" I'm cut off by Chuck's loud giggling. "What?" I ask.

    "You don't have to answer that. I'm just teasing you, Newt. Its better than Gally," Chuck says.

    "Gally?" I ask. Whats a Gally?

    "He was named after the scientist Galileo. But everyone calls him Gally. He's truly crazy. He doesn't hang out with all of us. He hates us, really," he says.

    "Thats always fun," I say.

    "You're here for O.C.D. right?" Chuck asks.

    "How'd you know?" I ask.

    "Well the way you walk, made your bed, dusted the room, your snapping, how you rearranged everything to be straight, and incase you haven't noticed, you've been tapping your hand in tens for the past twenty minutes," Chuck says. I immediately pick up my hand and look at it, earning another laugh from Chuck. "Four more," he says. I smile sheepishly and finish the last four then clench my hand.

    "Listen, O.C.D. is like a breath of fresh air around here. You'll see in about two hours or so," Chuck says.

    "What do you mean?" I ask.

    "You'll see. Don't worry, Newt. You'll fit in just fine," Chuck says. I want to tell him about the other things I have, but I have a feeling he knows. Or if he doesn't, he wouldn't be surprised.

    "Thank you," I say, anxiously playing with my blanket.

    "You're welcome. We should get to sleep, it's eleven and we have to wake up at six," Chuck says, pulling his blanket up.

    "Okay. Goodnight, Chuck," I say, turning over. My nerves are still at a high, but I try breathing in and out and before I know it, I'm sleeping.

 

I wake up to a loud smack of something close to me. I jolt upright to see what was going on, sleep still hanging on to me, trying to tug me down.

    I look across the room to see Chuck on the floor, tugging at his curly brown hair and banging into things, screaming at the top of his lungs.

    Before I can react, my breath caught in my chest from shock, someone opens the door.

    Not sure what to do, I watch as they calmly and swiftly close it behind themselves and sit down next to Chuck, grabbing a big object that I can't quite make out from his hands. They quickly take hold of his wrists, with much protest from Chuck who continues to flail his arms around despite the restraint.

    The person grabs both hands with one of their hands, and covers Chuck's mouth with the other.

    "Chuck, it’s me. It’s  _me_. I'm here." I hear the person say. It's a boy's voice, surprisingly young. Up til now, I'd suspected it was a doctor, but maybe I'm wrong.

    Chuck continues to scream into his hand but the boy keeps still, whispering into his ear until Chuck starts going limp. Meanwhile I've just been frozen, upright, afraid to move a muscle. The moon lighting up my face but not much else, I can only make out the two other boys as silhouettes.

    I listen in closer to the other boy who seems to have no clue I'm even here, and what he's saying to calm the boy down. _Is_ he a doctor? Finally I can make out two words he keeps repeating over and over while rocking Chuck.

    "It's Thomas, it's Thomas, it's Thomas."


	7. seven

Finally, Chuck calms down all the way until he's fully asleep again. The boy, Thomas, continues to rock him for a while. He still hasn't noticed me when theres a sound from outside our door and he looks there, panicked. He lays Chuck down gently and I lie down, out of the light. I watch as Thomas gets up, sneaking out of the door without a look back.

    I hesitate on what to do next. Should I get up and get Chuck into bed? If I wake him up, will it happen again? Plus, I'm pretty weak and I'm not sure I can lift him onto the bed.

    I get out and walk over to him, then yank the blanket off his bed and put it on him. On the way back, I finish my tens.

    I try to snap as quietly as possible, but you could hear a pin drop in here. I wince until they're done then climb into bed.

    I should really talk to Chuck about all this and see what I can do to help and how. Is that boy, Thomas, Chuck's friend he's been raving about? How could just someones name calm you down so much?

    He came in here so fast. He can't be a doctor, unless Chuck really likes the doctors here. That kid didn't look old enough to even start med school. He was in here so quickly nobody from outside had time to arrive.

    I look at the clock hanging on Chuck's side of the room. Its four in the morning, so I decide to get the two extra hours of sleep before we're woken up by God knows what.

    I turn around and put my head down, drifting to sleep thinking about the events that just occurred.

 

"Time to-"

    "I got it. I'll get him up," I hear Chuck interrupt the strange lady. Suddenly I feel Chuck next to me, shaking my shoulder.

    "C'mon Newt, get up. Breakfast!" Chuck says, while flapping me around.

    "Okay, okay," I say groggily, almost chuckling a little at his childish behavior and sitting up. I stretch out my arms, while last night comes flooding back.

    I decide to talk to him later, he clearly wants to get to breakfast.

    "Get dressed!" Chuck instructs. I go over to my clothes and pick out some things to wear before looking back at him, staring at me.

    "Uh..." I say, looking down at my clothes.

    "Oh, yeah, duh. Sorry, I haven't had a roommate in forever. I can't wait to tell everyone. I'll go do something," Chuck says, sitting on his bed and turning away from me.

    I quickly change into my new outfit. I'm beyond scared to go to breakfast today, I'm probably going to be worse than ever. I take my medication after breakfast so this is going to be a train wreck. Once I have everything on, I turn to Chuck, snapping.

    "Hey Chuck?" I ask.

    "Can I turn around?" he asks.

    "Yes," I say. He turns around, smiling still.

    "I'm really nervous," I tell him, somehow comfortable enough to let him know.

    "About breakfast? Listen, I won't leave your side. I'll introduce you to everyone. They'll love you, I promise," Chuck says.

    "Okay," I say, still not sold.

    "Let's go!" Chuck says, bounding towards the door. I look down, and my breathing becomes tight.

    "Uh, you can go ahead. I'll meet you there," I say, even though the thought of trying to find him in there sounds like pure torture.

    "Why?" Chuck says. I just look away uncomfortably until Chuck realizes. "Oh," he says.

    "Don't worry about it. You're fine, Newt. I'm not in that big of a rush," Chuck says. I can't help but feel bad as I walk towards him to the door, taking exceptionally large steps. "Okay, Newt, don't look crazier than you already are. I'm fine waiting a couple of seconds," Chuck says, and I laugh at his words. Actually laugh. Its been a while.

 

Turns out, its not that bad, because Chuck's too busy talking to notice he's stopping every couple of seconds. Which isn't really too fun because the dining hall isn't the closest. Finally we get there and Chuck flies in, jumping excitedly.

    " _Guys_!" I hear him exclaim. I walk in while I'm on one, so I can finish while I'm sitting.

    The dining hall is filled with boys, some young, some older. None too old though. They must be the eighteen to twenty five group that was mentioned to me yesterday. The older ones sit at one table, and the younger ones sit at the other. The older group don't look up, but the section of the young people table closest to us does.

    "Yeah?" A boy with black hair and a long face says, looking to Chuck, then me. The whole side of the table is looking at me, actually, which makes me feel like I'm about to pass out.

    "I got a roommate!" Chuck practically yells. The boys smile at Chuck and mumble their congratulatory words, before turning to me again.

    "His name is Newt, and he's a Normal," Chuck says.

    "Really," a boy says. I look to him and he looks like he could beat me up with a glare. "Lets just see. Sit down, Newt. I'm Minho," he says. I smile weakly as I sit down on the end with Chuck.

    "Okay, I'll introduce you to everyone," Chuck says, while I tap my feet quietly nine times.

    "That across from you is Winston," he says, pointing to the boy from before with the black hair.

    "Next to him is Jeff," he says, pointing to who apparently is Jeff. He looks my age, bored, but kind.

    "Then theres Frypan, which isn't his real name, but he helps out in the kitchen because he seems to be recovering enough to let him," Chuck says. Frypan gives me a smile then returns to his food.

    "Then theres Zart, also not his real name. We just call him that. I can't remember why," Chuck says. Zart shrugs.

    "Then you met Minho, actually his real name," Chuck says. I snap quietly under the table while bouncing my knee in tens, waiting for this to be over.

    "And theres Aris. He's fifteen, and he's surprisingly good at piano," Chuck says. Aris, a thin boy with stringy brown hair, nods in my direction. I look back to Chuck.

    "And- perfect timing! Last but most certainly not least, is Thomas," Chuck says. I turn to look where Chuck is pointing, and it's towards the door.

    Thomas is just entering the hall when he turns around at the mention of his name. I suddenly stop my knee bouncing and snapping altogether, my breath catching.

    So _that's_ Thomas.


	8. eight

Thomas walks in and looks over to the table. Thomas, the boy that could comfort Chuck out of a night terror by just saying his name. Thomas, the boy I saw in the hallway.

    He's only slightly taller than me, seems to be my age. Brown short hair, turned up nose, big brown eyes. Still the same slightly lost face.

    Thomas comes over to the table and sits directly across from me, which makes me squirm for some reason.

    Thomas looks up into my eyes and my heart feels like its stopped beating altogether.

    "Hi," Thomas says.

    "Hi," I say, letting go of my breath that I'd been holding. What's wrong with me?

    "Thomas, this is Newt," Chuck says.

    Meanwhile, Thomas and I have not broken eye contact. I decide its gotten past weird so I look down.

    "I saw you in the hallway yesterday," Thomas says. I look back up.

    "Oh, yeah," I say. I'm an awful liar so it doesn't come off convincing. Obviously I remember. But if they notice they don't say anything.

    "I was there!" the boy Zart says.

    "No, you weren't," Winston says, before turning to me. "Zart's a pathological liar," he says. I go to nod, but decide against looking insane nodding ten times.

    "So whats wrong with you?" Minho says.

    "Minho-" Chuck starts.

    "Chuck, it’s fine," I say, surprised I was able to get it out. "I'm here for a few things. Mainly O.C.D.," I explain in a lower voice.

    Lifting my head up, I see Thomas looking at me, nodding. Usually if someone did this, I would describe the look as 'piercing'. Because when anyone looks at me, it basically feels like a knife. But not when Thomas looks at me.

    Suddenly, I become painfully aware that I never finished snapping my ten.

    And that I forgot which number I was on.

    Now _this_ is what I was afraid of. It's a mental institution, it shouldn't be weird. But here I am with the normal-er people and the first thing they'll witness me do, is having an anxiety attack.

    What are my options? I can't get up and walk away, because I still haven't finished the other ten. This, of course, makes absolutely no logical sense, but its ruled out anyway. I could always start over, which would send me into an anxiety attack anyway. Then I could ask Chuck if he was keeping count but he probably wasn't.

    How could I let this happen? I've never ever forgotten what number I was on. It's like forgetting to blink, it's just not done. How on Earth could I forget this?

    I clench my fist and try to concentrate, to see if somehow it's in my head still, somewhere back there. After a couple of seconds, I give up.

    Maybe I can just do another ten and then that'll get me to over ten on my last one and I'll still have done another ten?

    I try to keep a normal face but I feel like all of my systems are shutting down. Except my right leg, which seems to have started spazzing out because its shaking like crazy. One of my nervous habits. I focus on my breathing to prevent breaking down in front of everyone.

    "Hey, Newt?" I hear. I look up and Thomas is looking at me concerned.

    "Yeah?" I say, but it comes out more as a pained statement, more than it does a question.

    "Are you alright?" Thomas asks. Chuck notices and turns to me.

    "Newt, are you okay? Do you need anything?" Chuck asks, putting his hand on my back. I wince, people touching me while I have anxiety is a pressure point of mine.

    "Chuck don't touch him," Thomas instructs. I look up at him, and he looks at me. Chuck removes his hand and put my hands down on the bench. I can't believe this is happening now. Of course I couldn't be normal for just a half hour.

    "What happened?" Chuck asks. I want to tell him, but not with the rest of them around. I wave him closer to whisper in his ear.

    "I, uh, forgot what number I was on," I say. I feel so stupid having anxiety attack over something so small. I'm surprised Chuck doesn't laugh in my face. He nods.

    "I know where the wheelchairs are, I'll get you back to our room if you want to," Chuck says.

    "I don't wanna come off badly," I say. Chuck laughs.

    "Trust me, you won't," he says, getting up. "I'll be right back."

    "Where's he going?" Minho asks.

    "Nowhere; don't worry about it," Thomas says. Minho shrugs, then goes back to his conversation.

    Thomas leans across the table to me.

    "Listen, Newt, I know how you're feeling right now. I get it. I don't know what caused it, but I get it," he says, surprising me. Turns out Lost Boy Tommy isn't so lost at all.

    "I, uh-," I try to start, before Thomas cuts me off.

    "It's okay, you don't have to talk," Thomas says. It's like he can read my mind. Without thinking, I nod. I mutter a curse then nod nine more times. For the first time that I've seen, Thomas laughs. Despite it all, I laugh a little too. Mostly anxiety induced, from nerves, but you can't help but laugh at it.

    Chuck comes back with a wheelchair and stops it in front of me.

    "Chuck, you can barely push the door open. Let me do it," Thomas says. Somehow, that doesn't help at all as I get into the chair. My heart starts racing faster and my legs are shaking a mile a minute. Thomas gets behind me to push me to the room.

    "Hey where are you guys going?" Winston asks. Minho nods in agreement of his confusion.

    "I said don't worry about it," Thomas says more sharply this time. Minho puts up his hands in defeat and turns away while Thomas starts wheeling me away, my head spinning.

    "Just hold on, we'll be to your room in a minute," Thomas says. I don't answer, but my thoughts drift to last night. I wish he could rock me back and forth and take this away like he did for Chuck. But I know it doesn't work that way. This boy is obviously a hero to Chuck. What's wrong with him, then? Why is he here?

    Finally we get back to the room and he opens the door, pushing me in with him and closing the door behind us.


	9. nine

"I'm so sorry," I say through my heavy breathing.

    "Don't worry about it, I'm glad to help," Thomas says, helping me onto the bed.

    Theres such a feeling of helplessness when you shut down like this. But somehow it's worse because you know you _can_ technically do something, but you just can't. Theres nothing you can say to me that I'm not already thinking. 'Whats the worst that can happen if you move?' Thought it. Truth is, I don't know. Is there supposed to be logic behind madness?

    Once I'm propped on the bed it relaxes me a bit, maybe if I sleep I can reset it. But instead of sleeping, I decide to talk to Thomas. It probably wouldn't work anyway, especially while I still feel like I'm going to die from my heart pounding and the panic in my chest.

    "Hey, Tommy- Thomas, sorry," I say, at my accidental calling him Tommy. I mentally slap myself, he must think I'm so strange. Not that I should care, but it's only my first day.

    "It's fine," he says, laughing. "It's actually kinda cute."

    I immediately blush all over, against my will of course. This earns another laugh from Thomas.

    "Tommy. You can call me that," he continues. Like a bolt of lightning, panic and fear surge through me at that moment. My entire body starts shaking and without thinking, I look up to Tommy.

    Another thing about anxiety attacks, the person witnessing it feels just as helpless as you do.

    I feel tears welling up in my eyes and I snap my head down to hide my embarrassment. This is ridiculous, so ridiculous, I can't believe this is how I am. I hate myself. I hate how I can't do anything right. I can't even be crazy right.

    Thomas seems to hesitate a little before walking over to the bed and sitting down next to me. He scoots over towards me as I pull my knees up and put my head between them.

    "Can I?" he asks, putting his hand up. At first I'm confused but then I get it. He's asking if he can touch me. I nod, and let myself nod ten times. He doesn't say anything, he just turns to me and puts his hand on my back. At first it feels like a needle, but after a few seconds it gets comforting. I close my eyes and try not to think about whats happening.

    I just met this kid, and he's rubbing my back. Only a little strange. He's trying to help, though. And I appreciate it a lot. I wish Tommy could just make the numbers go away. Just start me over. What if I let him? Can he even do that?

    "Thomas?" I ask.

    "Yeah?" Thomas says quickly.

    "I have a theory," I say. A tear escapes my eye, but I quickly wipe it away.

    Thomas nods so I continue. "Maybe, if you get rid of this round it'll go away," I say. As its coming out I realize how insane that must sound. He doesn't even know whats wrong with me. Round means nothing to him.

    "Okay, Newt. It'll work. I can do it, I know how, okay?" Thomas says to me. "Lay down."

    I do as he says. Somehow I'm letting myself believe him. He says he can do it so he can. He can.

    "It’s my hands. And my legs. I count-"

    "Shhh. I know. It’s okay," he says.

    Thomas grabs my hands and holds them for a couple of seconds. Then, he moves down to my legs. I feel him sit on the bed next to my legs as I close my eyes.

    "After this, it'll all be gone. Okay?" Thomas says.

    "Okay," I say, starting to feel tired. He puts his hands on the bottom of my legs and keeps them there. This will make it okay. This will start it over. This will work, it'll work it'll work, it'll work.

 

I wake up to someone shaking me, which startles the living daylight out of me. Jumping up, I see Thomas standing next to my bed.

    "I let you sleep for a little while but we have to go take our meds, I can't get another strike this week," he says, awfully jumpy. "We have to hurry since we're late already so I'll push you in the wheelchair if you want."

    "I-uh. Okay," I say timidly, getting into the wheelchair next to the bed. I close my eyes, still tired as I feel Thomas push me. This boy I don't even know has done so much. I still can't see why he's here, he seems so normal. I'm guessing he has anxiety based off how well he handled me, but obviously that's not all.

    The walk is quick to the medication window, but theres a long line. Thomas wheels me up to the back with Chuck and the others and stops us there.

    "Thank you. Again. I can push myself from here," I say softly, but just loud enough that Thomas can hear.

    "Are you sure?" Thomas asks.

    "Yeah," I say. Thomas looks at me for a second, then nods.

    "Alright," he says. I sit in my wheelchair, thinking about this all. I'm so stupid, he must think I'm insane. I let this boy I just met see my in my most vulnerable state, good way to make friends. It's his fault I forgot my number anyway. Somehow though, it feels okay now. I guess whatever he did is working for my subconscious because I feel like its gone back to zero, I can start over.

    Eventually after a long while and watching people try to fake names and/or skip out, its my turn to get my medication. I stand up at the window, leaving my wheelchair behind me. The lady standing there doesn't bother look up as she stares down at her clipboard.

    "Name?" she asks coldly.

    "Uh, Newton," I say. I'm pretty sure she won't need a last name, how many Newtons are there?

    "Ah, you're new," she says, looking up at me. She holds up a finger and turns around to a huge station of little cups with names and labels. She looks through them til she finds mine and gives me them with a small cup of water. I take them and go to walk away, but I hear a voice behind me.

    "Hold on. You have to take them here," the lady says. I stop and turn back around.

    "Oh. Okay," I say, looking down. I make sure I'm keeping count, at three steps when I'm standing in front of the lady again. I pour half of the nine pills and one piece of rice they were nice enough to provide me with into my mouth and take a swing of water, following it up with the other half.

    "Open your mouth and show me," the lady says.

    I frown but open my mouth reluctantly and the lady looks in and nods. "Next," she says. I go back to my wheelchair as I see Thomas walk up. Chuck's right behind him, so I decide to wait for Chuck.

    Thomas says his name and receives his meds. There's a lot in his cup, maybe more than mine. He pours the whole thing into his mouth, then after a second he takes the water and downs them. He opens his mouth for the lady and moves on, walking towards me.

    "Hello again," he says, standing by my side.

    "Hi," I say.

    "You know, I would comment on how your wheelchair has vines growing out of it, but I'm almost one hundred percent sure I'm the only one seeing that," Thomas says. At first I'm confused, but then I realize. That must be a reason why he's here. He probably sees things. That must be terrifying.

    I look down to humor him. "Yeah I think that's just you," I say. He laughs, looking back at Chuck walking towards us.

    "You don't know why I'm here. But I like that, actually," Thomas says.

    "Thomas we should get going, Gally just got here," Chuck says, walking up.

    "Oh. Okay, Newt I'll push you," Thomas says, before I can protest. He pushes me down the hall and around a corner to the little room where the more normal people get to go.

    "So, Newt. There's a TV, some chairs, and a window. Make yourself at home," Chuck says, sitting down.

    I look around and I see Minho, Winston, Aris, Zart, Frypan, and Jeff.

    "Thomas, did you score one for me?" Winston says. Thomas reaches out his hand and shakes Winston's before pulling away. "Dude this is awesome, thank you," Winston says.

    I look between them, confused before Thomas looks at me. "Please excuse me for a moment," he says, getting up and walking in the direction of the bathroom.

    A security guard checks him before letting him in. Two minutes later he appears in the room again and sits next to me.

    He smiles before holding his hand out and opening it to reveal four little tablets.

    "What? I just saw you take those," I say. He laughs, closing his hand.

    "You gotta learn where to hide them. These ones hurt me more than help me. They never listen when I tell them they make me worse. The other ones I take, they keep me stable enough during the day. But at night it's the worst," Thomas says. I can't help but to feel bad for him.

    "I-uh-took mine. I'm just here to get better," I say. Thomas scoffs.

    "Newt, I'm never getting out of here. I've tried but I can't. It doesn't matter what I do anymore," he says. I decide its best to not answer, what do you say to that?

    Deciding to go back to my room, I stand up and leave. I turn to look at Chuck, but he's busy. Thomas, however, is looking at me. I ignore it and walk away. I take my last two long strides as I turn the corner to snap. Thank god it wasn't in view of the others. I continue to walk and eventually make it to my room, sitting on my bed. Seven. I was on seven. I tap the rest out and snap before I sit back up on my bed.

    Just as I'm adjusting myself on the bed, I hear the door open.

    "Mind if I join you?"


	10. ten

Thomas stands by the door, looking at me with troubled eyes. I surprise myself and pat my hand on the bed in front of me, looking up at him. The two pats turn into ten, but neither of them pay attention to it.

    He follows suit and sits down next to me, putting his legs in a crisscross position. Taking the time, I look at his face. _Really_ look. His eyes seem to be sunken in, with dark circles around them. The light plays on his features and reveals his frown lines and droopy cheeks and tired looking eyes. Even when he smiles at me as he looks up, it looks surreal. Like a ghost. No wonder he's given up, he looks gone.

    "I could probably take a guess at who might've been," Thomas starts. "Chuck would've been a kid with a ton of video games with tons of friends who everyone loved. Instead, he's here and alone. Well, besides me. I probably would've been the teachers pet, on the school's baseball team, not too bright grades wise but otherwise the one you could always trust. But theres no point in dreaming if you're already a shell of what might've been, right?" Thomas finishes, blankly staring out of the window.

    "Thomas-," I start but something about his concentrated stare on the window made me stop.

    "Why are you here?" Thomas says. I would ask him to leave or not to ask, but I feel like he should know. It's not something I'm proud of but why not at this point? I'm here already obviously there's a reason.

    "I'm here for several reasons. I'm too numb to feel feelings anymore, I have no motivation to do anything but I have to and I know I have to because the essence of my being is constantly doing things. I panic at everything but can't stop making those things happen.

    "I don't want to drag myself out of bed in the morning but I have to do my routine, or it feels like I'm suffocating. Everything I do, I have to do it ten times. And I constantly want to give up, but I can't because I need to do this for my parents. I'm sick of being a disappointment," I say, causing Thomas to finally look at me.

    After a long period of silence and shuffling, Thomas clears his throat. "Ten times?" he asks.

    "Ten," I say.

    "So what about talking? Why don't you say everything ten times?"

    "Who knows, I might start doing that next," I say. He nods.

    "Why can't you just...not?" Thomas asks.

    "Well why can't you just stop blinking?" I ask him, the answer coming to me like an automated response after having to answer this a thousand times.

    "Oh. So what do you do ten times?" Thomas asks me, and for some reason this strikes me as funny.

    "Um. I have a walking routine, ten steps and then I have to snap my fingers ten times," I say. Thomas smirks at me before making some hardcore eye contact.

    "I like your accent," he says. I feel my face get hot as I laugh a bit. I've had people tell me this before so its not unusual to me.

    "Its British. My father's side, actually. My mother is from here, and we moved when I was five," I say, starting to relax a little. Its been a long time since I've had this kind of banter with someone.

    "I figured. Its pretty cute," Thomas says. This is the second time he's said something like that. Is Thomas gay? Why else would he say that. I mean there _could_ be other reasons.

    "Thanks," I say, immediately inwardly cringing at myself. Thanks? That's a terrible response.

    I've never actually thought about anyone in any way. Growing up I only liked a couple of girls but that was mainly when I was a kid. I've never felt the need for a label, it seems senseless. I've never been quite comfortable around girls, but I figured it was just normal, my awkwardness.

    Suddenly Alby pops into my head, giving me anxiety. I don't need this right now, I need to get myself better. I can't...

    "Any time. So...what _else_ do you have to do ten times?" he asks. The look on his face is devious, which makes me question myself.

    "Well, like, everything I guess," I say back, refusing to make eye contact.

    "So do you wash your hands ten times?" he asks.

    "Well no, I wash them for ten minutes."

    "Do you have a timer? Or just-,"

    "I count, actually," I say, finally looking up at Thomas to see him still looking directly at my face.

    "If someone kissed you would you kiss them once, ten times, or for ten minutes?" Thomas asks. I feel my heart audibly miss a beat as I cross my arms, trying to shrink into myself.

    "I'm, uh, not sure I guess. It's never happened so I wouldn't know. Not that I'm waiting for it to. I'd just have to find out. Again not that I want to or anything-," I cut myself off when I hear Thomas laughing at me, not helping the tomato color of my face.

    "Relax, Newt," he says, pushing back his hair. "Anyway, OCD isn't the worst thing in the world. I'm sorry about what I said before. I think you can get better, even if I'm a lost cause." Theres a small silence before I finally have the courage to speak up again.

    "I think we got off on the wrong foot," I say, earning a chuckle from Thomas.

    "Yeah, okay. I see what you mean," he answers. I stick my hand out in his direction, ignoring my nerves.

    "Hi, my name is Newt," I say. Thomas doesn't hesitate, grabbing my hand and shaking it ten times before looking at me and speaking.

    "Tommy."


	11. eleven

Thomas left an hour or two later, leaving me to think about how life will be for me now. I start my therapy sessions tomorrow with the doctor here, which makes me anxious despite the pills I took. I don't even know what to say.

    While he was in here, Thomas told me about the guy who will be doing the sessions, Dr. Janson. He doesn't sound terrible, but all social interactions are quite uncomfortable for me nowadays. What'll he ask me about? He'll probably think theres a deep emotional problem thats causing all this but he won't dig deep and find anything wrong. I don't think its that deep, I think I'm just crazy. Nothing was wrong until my O.C.D. started. Therapy will probably be a waste of time, but while I'm trying to recover I guess it won't hurt.

    I look over to the clock which tells me its currently six, so dinner will most likely be soon. Sucking in a breath, I hoist myself off the bed and start walking, the count of my steps going on in the back of my head. Once I'm outside the door I reach ten, and stop to snap. For a moment, I feel at ease. I've never been around so many people who have the same difficulties as I do. Well not exact, but ballpark. It's comforting to know you're not alone. There's still the anxiety and depression weighing on my chest and hanging in my heart and stuck on my mind, but maybe I can get through it.

    "Hey, Newt, where have you been?" Chuck asks. He startles me while I'm walking but I make sure to remember that I'm on two.

    "In my room, you were talking to people so I went back," I say, adding a weak smile at the end.

    "Oh. Well dinner is being served now so we should head there," he says. I was already heading that way so I continue walking until I reach ten again. When I stop to snap, Chuck stops too.

    "You can go ahead if you want," I say. Chuck shakes his head.

    "No way. I've been counting with you actually, it's kinda fun," Chuck says. It strikes me as weird that he'd think this was 'fun'. If he'd like to take what I have he'd be welcome to have fun with it.

    "Yeah. It's a riot, really," I say. Chuck looks shocked at my response.

    "Oh, oh, I'm sorry I didn't mean it like that. Of course it’s not _fun_ not at all. Um. I mean-,"

    "Don't worry about it. I know what you meant," I say. I guess if you don't have to do it then it could be considered as a game. We finally reach the dining room and make our way to the table.

    "Hey Chuck, hey Newt. Missed you there earlier," I hear Minho greet us as we arrive. Giving another weak smile, I sit down next to Chuck and across from Thomas, who's engaged in a conversation with Winston. I'm iffy about Winston now, he was the one who Thomas gave his pill to. Frankly, it was gross.

    "Hey guys," Frypan says, coming from the kitchen with plates of food. He checks each tag on them before placing them before each person. Everyone has a different assortment of food, probably basing it on why they're here. Mine is a grilled chicken breast with broccoli. I can't complain, it looks pretty good.

    As I start eating, Thomas leans over and signals he wants to whisper to me. My face subconsciously turned bright red as I leaned in too.

    "Do you have to chew ten times?" he asks. For some reason this strikes me as hilarious and makes me full on giggle in front of him. Putting down my fork, I pull away and look up at him.

    "Tommy, I'm crazy but I'm not that crazy. Besides, even if I do, I probably wouldn't even realize. I could be doing it right now, it's robotic," I say. Thomas laughs and looks down, causing a pain in my chest. What on Earth is the matter with me. I guess I just really like being his friend.

    "Just asking. Its interesting, I wanna see it from your point of view," he says.

    "I'd probably be the same way." Somehow I've gained the confidence to joke around, something I haven't done in a long time.

    Thomas stops laughing suddenly, like a switch, and stares at my plate. I look down at it to see nothing but my food.

    "Whats wrong?" I ask. Thomas keeps staring, shaking his head a little. "Tommy?"

    "I, uh," he says, pulling his eyes away and shutting his eyes tight, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It’s nothing. Sorry."

    "Okay," I say, concerned but dropping it. Possibly a hallucination of his. I wonder what he saw. Does he get a headache with them? He opens his eyes again and looks down to my plate, seemingly satisfied with what he sees.

    "Um. What was I saying?" he asks.

    "Uh, something about my craziness," I say, trying to lighten the mood. Thomas smiles and looks into my eyes. Man, thats some killer eye contact.

    "You know Newt, you're really fun," Thomas says. I can't help but smile.

    "You're not too bad yourself," I say.

    "There's a call for Newton," a man comes in and yells to the room. I look around before standing up and walking over, ending on a seven.

    "I'm Newton," I say. The man points down the hall and I go to the room with the phones, trying not to take so much time.

    When I get there I pick up the only phone with a shining green light and sit down on the stool in front of it.

    "Hello?" I say, finishing my ten and snapping.

    "Newt? Sweetie how are you?" I hear my mom on the line.

    "As good as I can be, I guess," I say.

    "Did you take your pills? How are the meals? How's Chuck? How are the people? Do you need to come home?" she rambles all at once.

    "I took my pills, the meals are good, Chuck is good, the people are good, everything is good. I'm good. I don't need to come home," I say, leaving out any details.

    "Okay. That's good. You're sure you're okay?" she says.

    "I'm fine. How are you guys?" I ask, wrapping the cord of the phone around my finger and biting my lip. The line is silent for a couple of seconds before my mom answers.

    "We're good," she says. Why did it take her so long to respond?

    "Okay," I say, not really wanting to dig deep into it. "I should get back to dinner."

    "Oh! Get back to dinner. We love you so much," she says.

    "Love you too," I say, waiting a moment before hanging up.

 

  
I walk into the dining room again and the first thing I see is running. I'm frozen in place as I see a medic at my table and hear shouting shouting everywhere. My automatic response is to shut down, but my mind first goes to Thomas.

    It seems to go in slow motion as I run over, pushing my way through to see what was going on. Everyone is crowded around a convulsing body, which I can only see the legs of. Chuck is next to him, and that helps me because I know its not him.

    It's like running through water, when you're petrified to reach your ending point. As the face starts coming into view I feel a hand on my shoulder and I whip around to see him.

    Thomas.

    "Newt, Winston overdosed, _go back to your room_ ," he says, placing strong emphasis on his last words. I turn back around to see Winston's face as he lies there. He's almost gray as the paramedics surround him.

    Thomas' face looks panicked and I can see fear in his eyes as a tear rolls down his cheek. A voice in my mind screams _seven_. I run, counting the amount of times I reach ten so I can make up for it later.

    I run and run, blood rushing to my head. I don't stop till I reach my room and close the door behind me. I slide down the door and put my head in my hands, crying into them. I don't know what makes me break down so much, but I'm left sobbing on the floor. I snap 50 times while doing so, crying even more at how pathetic that is.

    All I'm left to do for an hour is cry.


	12. twelve

"Chuck," I say almost too urgently as he walks into the room. His face is sullen and tired.

    "Hey Newt," he says. He looks like he's just been crying, and I can't blame him. After spending over an hour doing the same, I can only imagine how he feels since he's actually been out there and not hiding in his room. Theres been sirens and loud voices and shouting and cop cars and ambulances on and off for a while now. The poor kid shouldn't be dealing with this. It's not fair. None of us should.

    I can't think of anything to say to him that might help. What's there to be said?

    "I don't know if he's alive, if thats what you're wondering," Chuck says with a sniffle. I can't think of a response for that either.

    "I'm sorry," I say at a loss for words. "Would a hug help?" I ask. Hugs aren't really my thing but he looks like he can use one. And turns out he can, because he immediately runs over to me and sits on the bed, enveloping me in a bear hug. I hug him back as long as he needs it, which turns out to be five minutes.

    "Thomas and the others are being questioned right now. I went first. They weren't all that nice," he says. Of course, why would they be? Its not like we're human beings, right?

    "What'd they do?" I ask.

    "They treated me like... like I was stupid I guess. They just shouted at me," Chuck says. My heart breaks for him as he tells me. He's just a kid.

    "What did they ask you?"

    "If I knew anything about how Winston did it," Chuck says, tearing up again. "I told them I didn't know. I wanted it to be over."

    "You don't need to tell me. I'm so sorry Chuck, I'm sorry they treated you that way," I say. Chuck nods his head before rubbing his eyes.

    My anxiety has been through the roof throughout this whole ordeal. I'm just waiting for the day to be over at this point, it's been way too much for me.

    "I just wish I knew if he was alive, you know? He wasn- _isn't_ a bad person. He doesn't deserve this. He was just trying to get better," Chuck says.

    "I know, I'm sorry," I say.

    "He checked _himself_ in here. They refused to give him enough of what he needed so he just..." Chuck trails off, staring at the floor.

    "I'm sorry," I say. All I can do is apologize. Apologize for Chuck, apologize for Winston, apologize for everyone here.

    "I just wanna sleep," Chuck says.

    "Sleep then, it's been a long day for all of us," I say. Chuck shakes his head.

    "If someone hears something about Winston I have to be up," Chuck says. I put my hand on his shoulder, hoping it'll comfort him.

    "I'll tell you what. I'll stay up, and you sleep. If anything happens, I'll wake you up to tell you," I say. Chuck looks up at me with a gleam in his eyes.

    "Really?" he asks. I give him a weak smile, the best I can muster.

    "Of course," I say. He smiles a little and climbs over to his bed, getting under the covers.

    "Thank you, Newt," he says.

    He falls asleep about five seconds later. I wonder if he had a panic attack today. He probably did while I wasn't there, after all, I spent a majority of today in my room. Tomorrow will be better. It has to be, anything would be better than today.

    Suddenly I remember about my sessions with Dr. Janson starting tomorrow. What'll that be like? Its not like I've never been to therapy before. I've been to three different doctors but it only made me worse so we stopped going. Every time I went I'd break down somehow. Not emotionally, its just they'd ask so many questions and it would cause me to panic. Even so, we tried and tried again.

    I never wanted to go. They pry and pry and it never makes a difference. I've even tried faking emotional breakthroughs. One time I squeezed out some tears and made up some deeply seeded fears. That was with the third therapist. She seemed pleased so I just spouted off some fake childhood memories.

_"...So thats when I was bullied in grade school. They all took turns making fun of me. It was terrible," I say in my most convincing voice._

_"Anything else?" the doctor, Dr. Sonya, says while nodding along._

_"They stole my bike. I felt like I needed to fit in," I continue. Looking up at the time, I could see our session was about to end._

_"Guess we're out of time," Dr. Sonya says. I don't say anything, waiting for her to continue. She smiles while shuffling her papers. "Do you ever write?"_

_I furrow my eyebrows. "Write?" I ask._

_"You're quite the storyteller. You should start writing," she says. I shrink back in my chair, she's figured me out. Guess I wasn't as convincing as I thought._

_"Okay," I say._

_"I'll see you next Thursday, until then keep this journal and write down anything you want," she says, handing me a notebook._

_"Okay," I say again._

    I never went back to that therapist. But to be completely honest, the more I think about it, she wasn't all that bad. The writing thing doesn't sound so terrible. It wasn't as annoying as some of the homework the other therapists gave me. They would give me assignments which just bothered me.

    Hopefully Dr. Janson won't be as bad.

    "Do you know whats happening now?" I hear a voice from outside the door.

    "I guess we'll find out soon. Nobody's said anything so far." I don't recognize the voices.

    "The poor kid. Do you know what caused it?" The first voice appeared again.

    "I'm pretty sure it was an O.D." My heart beats faster even though deep down I already knew what the cause was.

    "What a shame. We'll have to take new precautions, then."

    "Definitely," the second voice says before I hear footsteps signaling that they've walked away.

    I shouldn't wake Chuck. That wasn't real news, they don't really know anything. Waking him now would just make him worse. Better off letting him sleep.

    Chuck's words come back to me, _Thomas and the others are being questioned right now_. Is Thomas out yet? Should I go look? What if he loses his cool? What if they scare him? God knows they've been through enough already but to be interrogated now... I can't bear the thought.

    As if on cue, I hear a scream.

    Not a scared scream, no, an angry one. Followed by shouts of "hold him back!" and "get a nurse!".

    Quickly, I debate what to do. Do I get up and walk there? It'll take a million years. Maybe I can wheel myself there? I couldn't send Chuck, he should get rest. I have to go for myself.

    Launching myself off the bed, I stand on the floor making a game plan. I'll run and count, then make up for it once I'm there.

    One, two, three, four steps to the door. I run, counting out all my steps before I'm at 30 and I can see a rush of nurses and police outside the dining hall. Then, unmistakably, Thomas.

 

  
A week ago I couldn't imagine ever saying "I'll run and count, then make up for it after." The thought froze me. It froze me in place as I watched Thomas be sedated and taken into his room. As I heard the nurses yell at me to go back in my room. As I stood there for five minutes just watching.

    Eventually I went back to my room and snapped 70 times, making up for there and back. I did so quietly, as to not disturb Chuck.

    It's ten o'clock now, the blinking clock tells me. Chuck hadn't woken up at all, which I was thankful for. The past some hours had been spent staring at my ceiling. I'd heard cars drive away and cars arrive and people talking and people moving, but eventually I tuned it out. Theres no use in it all. Nobody had said anything as to what condition Winston is in.

    Maybe everything will be better in the morning.

    I close my eyes, instantly drifting off to sleep.


	13. thirteen

Thoughts of Winston come crashing into my head like a brick through a window as soon as I wake up, not opening my eyes yet.

    There's no sounds of sirens or cops or anything like the night before. I didn't hear my alarm go off, and I don't hear a jumpy and excitable Chuck yelling at me to come eat breakfast. Is he even in the room?

    Maybe it's not the wake up time yet, maybe he's still sleeping. I open my eyes finally, looking immediately out the window only to squint up into the blinding sunlight, the only thing shading him from it being the bars across it.

    "It's seven," I hear, causing me to jump, turning my head in the direction of the noise.

    Thomas is sitting up against the door, his knees pulled tightly to his chest. He stares up at me, the situation making me feel... _exposed_ somehow.

    "Tommy?" I ask, reaching up to rub the sleep from my eyes. He's got to stop doing that.

    Thomas smiles softly, the simple and out of place act putting me at ease. About him randomly showing up in my room, about Winston, about everything.

    "I, uh... I turned off your alarms. Don't worry, Frypan set food aside for you guys. I told him you both had rough days yesterday, and you deserved to sleep in," Thomas says, his eyes meeting mine but looking away every few seconds as he speaks.

    I'm at a lack for words for a moment, only partially because of my sleepiness. That was really nice of Thomas, god knows I could use the extra sleep. But now a flood of questions take over. Is there any news about Winston? Did Chuck have any night terrors? When's he supposed to have a panic attack? How did Thomas get in here? How long has been in here? Is he even allowed?

    "Thank you," I say, sitting up more. "Is there-?"

    "Winston?" Thomas asks, cutting me off.

    There's a momentary silence before I answer. "Yeah."

    "The most I've gotten is that he _may_ be in stable condition. That's all I've been told," Thomas says.

    My promise to Chuck to wake him up if there was any news comes back to me, but it doesn't seem like a good idea now. I'll let him sleep as long as he can, there's no urgent reason to let him know now, especially with information that vague.

    "Stable... that's good," I say lamely, unsure of what else can be said about it.

    "Yeah, well, I sure hope so," Thomas says, a look of pained worry flashing over his face now.

    "Chuck told me they went a little hard on the lot of you," I say somberly, remembering Chuck's description from last night. It sounded horrible.

    "Almost got me put in solitary. They kept asking the same things in the same tone that made me feel like I wasn't even a human to them. I stand by whatever I said or did, but I didn't hurt anyone. Including Winston," Thomas says, the last part sounding like it was less about trying to convince me and more trying to convince himself.

    "It wasn't your fault," I say, only half believing it. It's true that it wasn't his intent, but if Thomas gave him the extra pills...

    "How could it have been my fault?" Thomas asks softly, staring at the ground. "We've been doing this for a long time now. Every single day. Something is wrong. It wasn't me."

    He's right. If they did this regularly, how could he have only just overdosed? Thomas isn't a bad kid. Not as far as I can tell. Like Chuck said, he was trying to help Winston. He wouldn't give him anything he thought would hurt him. Maybe it really isn't his fault.

    "I believe you," I say, truly meaning my words.

    Thomas looks back up at me, his eyes filled with tiredness and unmistakable sincerity.

    "Thanks, Newt," he says.

    I give him a weak half-smile, sitting up completely in the bed.

    "How long have you-," I start, then stutter and stop myself. "Did, uh, Chuck have any night terrors?"

    "Don't worry, I wasn't watching you sleep or anything. I came in right before your alarms came on to turn them off, then left, then came in a few minutes ago to check if you were awake. I don't want to be around the others right now," Thomas says, humor in his first words, but the rest serious. "Also, no night terrors. One of the first nights in a while."

    "Really?" I ask.

    "He's been having them since..." he trails off. "I don't know if I should be telling you this," Thomas says.

    I furrow my eyebrows, tilting my head. "How long he's had them?"

    "It's more than that. I think it's the reason he _started_ having them, and I think Rat Man thinks the same," Thomas says.

    "Rat Man?" I ask, Thomas shaking his head.

    "It's the stupid name Minho gave Dr. Janson, it caught on. Anyway, I think they started when Chuck's older brother died. It was three years ago, a car accident, and he's been having them ever since," Thomas explains.

    "Oh my god," I say, my heart breaking even further for the poor kid.

    "His name was Ben, and sometimes he yells it during a night terror or panic attack. I can't even imagine what he had to go through," Thomas says.

    For some reason, this brings about the other question I have. What's Thomas in here for? Clearly he has hallucinations or delusions. But how bad is it? He has a temper too, I've noticed. I don't blame him given his situation, but it might be part of it. Was he violent? _Is_ he violent? He says he isn't getting better, does he know that for a fact or is he just saying that?

    I decide to mentally drop it for now, we're talking about Chuck. Poor Chuck has had it rough. But I think he'll get better.

    "When did his panic attacks start?" I ask.

    "He says he had anxiety when he was younger and it just escalated as his life got rougher. They pulled him out of school because they thought it was the problem, but it still got worse til it became a routine for him," Thomas says.

    "I know a bit about routines," I say. "They're hard to break. But Chuck is still young, just a kid, do you think he'll grow out of it?"

    "I like to think so," Thomas says. "He's like my little brother. I can't wait for him to get out of here, even though it'll suck without him."

    The thought of Chuck leaving is a great one, he deserves to be a normal kid. But Thomas is right, if he left now this place would get a lot more dreary and unbearable.

    "How long has he been here?" I ask.

    "About five months," Thomas says. "Hasn't improved or gotten worse. But his parents are dirtbags, haven't visited and rarely call. They could manage him if they actually tried."

    "Five months?" I ask. If Chuck has been here that long, how long am _I_ gonna be here? How long has Thomas been here?

    "I still remember it. He wasn't so happy-go-lucky when he got here. He needed someone, so I took him in. His roommate was quite literally a psychopath, he got put in a section with the more violent people after a month so he's been alone ever since," Thomas says. "I'm glad he has you now."

    I manage another smile. "I'm glad to have _him_. And I'm glad he has you, you're incredible with him."

    "If I wasn't insane, I think I'd make a great therapist," Thomas smiles back. "I have Chuck down. I spend most of my therapy time telling Rat Man how to treat everyone else. Chuck's night terrors are because of his brother, and the panic attacks were from his Mom and Dad's divorce combined with his anxiety. The kid's just been through too much."

    "Has Dr. Janson been giving him grief counseling?" I ask.

    "He has. But clearly not enough," Thomas says. "You have your first session today, don't you?"

    "Unfortunately," I say, sighing.

    "Just play along, you'll be fine," Thomas says. "I wonder if I can figure _you_ out, too."

    "Figure me out? There's nothing to figure out," I say, Thomas furrowing his brows as he looks at me, a hint of a smirk on his face.

    "That's what they always say," he says. "Give me time."

    Just when I start to feel Thomas' gaze reaching my soul, a voice pulls his attention away.

    "Time for what?" Chuck says groggily, rolling over.

    "Hey, Chuck," Thomas says. "Sleep well, shuckface?"

    "Thomas? What time is it?" Chuck asks. "...Shucker," he adds as an afterthought.

    "Shucker?" I ask, completely lost.

    Thomas laughs, an odd empty sound but still joyful all the same. "Chuck gets anxiety from cursing, so we came up with a new one. It's like fu-," Thomas stops himself. "It's two words mixed together."

    "I see," I say, not being able to help chuckling at the thought.

    "Wait," Chuck says, sitting up quickly. "Winston. Is he okay? Have you heard anything? Newt, you said-."

    "I heard he was stable," Thomas says, cutting him off. I'm grateful, I was about to be told off.

    "Stable?" Chuck asks. "Okay... okay, that's good."

    "It's seven, by the way. I let you sleep a bit extra, Frypan saved some food for you in the kitchen," Thomas says.

    Chuck nods, seeming to look okay with everything. "Thanks."

    "No problem," Thomas says. "Do you know what time group is today?"

    "The schedule said three," Chuck says. "Newt, did you get assigned a group yet?"

    "What's group?" I ask. I go to Dr. Janson at three, so I won't be where they are.

    "Group therapy. Rat Man should tell you what group you're in today, we're Group A," Thomas says. "It's once a day, sometimes twice. Nothing to worry about."

    "Alright," I say, hoping I'm with them. "Do you have to talk?"

    "Not necessarily," Thomas says. "It's short, and they don't press you."

    "Yeah, yeah, therapy, short, whatever; can we go get some food?" Chuck asks.

    Thomas stands up. "I'm gonna sneak out of here, I'll see you later," he says, directing it to both of us before he opens the door and slips out, reminding me of that first night he came in to comfort Chuck.

    "Let's get dressed, I'm starving," Chuck says.

    I nod absentmindedly, but still remembering to do it ten times as I stare after Thomas.

 

  
After a quick breakfast, Chuck shows me a sign in the hallway containing a schedule.

    Six wake up and breakfast, seven is an activity for older people, eight is a class for kids my age, ten is medication time for me, eleven is group therapy for Group B, twelve is lunch and recreational time, three is group therapy for Group A and a class for the older people, four is more classes for kids my age, five is another medication time, six is dinner, and you're supposed to be in bed by ten.

    Sounds like a good schedule to me, and now that it's been a day I'm guessing I'll have to start actually following it. Chuck sighs.

    "They're going to ask me to talk about Winston at group," he says.

    "Do you want to?" I ask.

    "Not at all," Chuck says.

    "Then don't," I say simply.

    "If I don't, they'll think I'm not channeling my feelings or whatever," Chuck says, walking away.

    I walk with him, counting my steps as usual.

    _One, two, three, four, five, six_ -

    "Newt," Chuck says softly, stopping in his tracks in front of me.

    _Seven_.

    "Chuck?" I ask, reaching a hand out and putting it on his shoulder only to find he's shaking like a leaf.

    Chuck turns to me, his jaw and fists clenched and eyes watering.

    Fear rises in me before I realize it. He's having a panic attack.

    Chuck's chest starts rising and falling rapidly, his whole body shaking vigorously while tears spill over. My hand falls to my side as I stare helplessly, my mind racing.

    I look around for help now, nobody close to us, and nobody paying attention.

    " _Help_!" I yell, not even having noticed my heart rate increase to a million a second. I feel a million miles away from myself while I yell for someone to come help Chuck, the anxiety I'm getting enough to make me feel like I'm gonna pass out.

    Chuck yells out to nobody in particular, his tears becoming sobs now as he turns from me. I go to grab for him, but he grabs my hand and shoves it away.

    It all happens slowly, like the world is moving at the wrong time around me. He crumbles to his knees just as a nurse comes in to grab him, not even looking a slight bit phased.

    " _No_!" Chuck fights back, crying and trashing, trying to suck in a breath between sobs.

    Is it this bad every day? I couldn't handle that once a week let alone multiple times every single day.

    Chuck kicks the nurse in the shin and they curse, making Chuck squeeze his eyes shut as he shakes his head. The nurse lets him sit and grabs his hands, Chuck thrashing his legs around. The sight makes me sick.

    I don't realize I'm crying til I subconsciously wipe my eye, feeling the tears on my face.

    A doctor I recognize comes over calmly to Chuck now, Dr. Ava Paige. She kneels down by his side and the other nurse lets his hands go, Chuck grabbing his knees, the crying not getting any better.

    _Eight_.

    "Chuck, it's Dr. Ava Paige. Do you recognize me? What's my name?" she says, her voice eerily normal.

    "No, no, no, no, stop," Chuck mumbles, choking on his words.

    "Do you know my name, Chuck?" she asks.

    Chuck looks at her now, his eyes searching her face.

    "Dr. Ava Paige," Chuck says shakily.

    She nods, continuing. "Where are we right now?"

    "TIMI," Chuck says, his knuckles turning white from the grip he has on his knees.

    "What color is the ceiling?" she asks.

    "White," Chuck responds, not looking up. These must be a normal checklist of questions.

    "That's right," she says. "What's your name?"

    "Chuck," Chuck says.

    "Who's your best friend?" she asks.

    "Thomas," Chuck responds immediately, seeming to visibly calm more, sniffling and loosening his grip.

    "What grade are you in?"

    "Ninth."

    Chuck closes his eyes, playing with the material of his pants, his breathing still quick.

    "Who's your roommate?" she asks.

    This one takes a second. "Newt," he says. That's not a normal question, obviously. So it must have thrown him off.

    "You're safe. Nobody is trying to hurt you. Nothing has changed. You're okay," she says, her voice not having even slightly changed in tone.

    Chuck suddenly moves away from the both of them, still breathing heavily, squeezing his eyes shut.

    "Get away from me," he says shakily but quieter than before.

    The nurse and Dr. Ava Paige walk away, but the nurse stays close, standing back by the wall while Chuck puts his head between his knees.

    Part of me wants to walk over and help comfort him, but the other part of me say that that's not a good idea. He just said he wants to be left alone, so I should respect that.

    _Nine. Ten._

    I start my ten snaps while I gaze back at Chuck, hating leaving him there. Should he be in our room? What would Thomas do? Where is he? He must be in that class. If he were here right now, he could handle this. I have to talk to both of them about how to help him.

    I make it back to our room in forty steps, feeling guilty that I left Chuck. The only thing that helps is that this is normal for him, he'll be himself again in no time. Right?

    After I finish my round of tens, I walk over and sit on my bed, taking small steps so I get there in six and tap the rest out on the floor. I have two hours til medication time, four hours til lunch, and seven hours til my first therapy session.

    Today's gonna be a long day.


	14. fourteen

I walk outside of my room for the designated medication time to see Chuck walking up to the back of the line.

    "Chuck!" I yell, taking bigger steps to get to him quicker.

    Chuck turns and smiles his normal, cheery smile, walking to meet me while I stop to snap ten times.

    "Newt, have you been in our room this whole time? You missed Minho, he was-,"

    "You're okay now? Everything is fine?" I ask.

    "Yeah! Why wouldn't I be?" Chuck asks nonchalantly, shrugging and putting his hands on his hips.

    "Why _wouldn't_ you be? I..." I trail off, before closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. "You scared me there, Chuck."

    "With... oh. Sorry," Chuck says, his smile disappearing.

    "Don't be sorry, I just need to know what to do," I say, feeling bad that I may have upset him. It's not his fault, obviously, I just don't want to be caught off guard.

    "I'll tell you what, after this, I'll explain everything. Okay?" Chuck says.

    I want to nod but can't, so I give him a small half smile. He seems to take it as an agreement, because he walks back to the line, leaving me to stand alone.

    The line is long, so I hold back, deciding to wait til there's less people. Lines are difficult for me, having to pause between steps so much. Besides, I don't have any of those 'strikes' Thomas was talking about.

    As if on cue, in the corner of my eye I see someone run extremely fast toward the line. Looking up, I see him stop at the back and fidget nervously, moving back and forth shifting his weight onto his left, then his right leg, and bouncing slightly in his place.

    Thomas. Is he going to skip out on his medication again? Winston isn't here so there's nobody to give anything to. But he looks extremely nervous.

    I fight the urge to get in line, but anxiety starts creeping in at the awkwardness of just standing here like this. I'm almost halfway to the line from my room, just stood frozen in my spot in the middle of the hallway. The scene reminds me of my last day of school, collapsing to the ground.

    Suddenly, the line looks more appealing.

 

  
After I eventually get my medication, I set off slowly but surely to find Chuck. It takes me a few minutes, but I find him in the room he was in yesterday with most of the Normals.

    "Dude, I will reach through this screen and strangle you if you pick Vanessa. She's a psychopath," Minho says angrily, watching the TV. "Sorry, Jeff."

    "Sociopath, you moron," Jeff says, his expression not showing that he actually cared.

    Jeff is a sociopath? I wouldn't have guessed it from meeting him yesterday, but it makes sense. He's in here, after all.

    "Close enough," Minho says, his eyes not moving from the screen.

    "Newt!" Chuck snaps me out of my watching them when he speaks. "Sit here!"

    He's sitting across the room, so I map out my route to him before making my way over in big steps, trying to get there in under ten. It works and I make it there in eight, so I sit next to him and tap out the rest on the floor while Chuck starts talking.

    "All you need to know about my panic attacks is that they happen, and Dr. Ava Paige usually talks me through them. But if she's not there, just ask me some questions and tell me that I'm not going to die," Chuck says, while I start snapping my ten.

    "That's it?" I ask.

    "That's it. It takes me a few minutes, but I recover. You're not the only one with a routine," Chuck laughs.

    It still baffles me how he can be so cheerful despite his situation. Thomas told me about his parents, maybe this is better than home. The thought hurts my heart.

    "What the he-," Minho yells, drawing out the end of the word and looking at Chuck before finishing it. "-eck. He chose shuckin' Vanessa. _Vanessa_."

    "Minho, what did I say about watching The Bachelor? You get way too emotionally involved." A new person enters the room and I barely have to look to know it's Thomas. He walks over and sits next to Minho, Minho glaring at him.

    "Shut it. You had me up half the night, so I'm allowed to be irritable today," Minho says.

    "You're _always_ irritable," Thomas says.

    "Yeah, well, try waking up to an ugly face like yours everyday and see how _you_ feel," Minho says, nudging Thomas with his shoulder.

    Thomas laughs, before standing up and looking around, his eyes scanning the room before meeting mine and stopping there. He walks over now, stopping in front of me.

    "May I?" he asks, pointing to the seat next to me.

    "Uh, sure," I say. It's unnerving how quickly Thomas can go from a nervous looking mess to this so quickly.

    He sits down, and I notice that he's still jittery, his legs and hands not seeming to want to stay still.

    "I didn't know you and Minho were roommates," I say, lamely breaking the ice.

    "For a while now. We're a good team, similar symptoms. Different causes, though," Thomas says.

    "Different causes?" I ask.

    "Minho over there was a bit of a junkie," Thomas says. "Scrambled up his brain. The commercials don't lie."

    "So they sent him here? To do what? Be on more drugs?" I ask.

    "There's a ton of recovering addicts here. Even just in this group. Minho and..." he trails off. "Winston. But you're right. They put them back on drugs, just government approved ones."

    "That's awful," I say, at a loss for better words.

    "Minho was left with a whole bunch of things. The anger, paranoia, hallucinations, everything withdrawal related," Thomas says.

    I feel guilty talking about the others behind their backs, but the curiosity is overwhelming. Looking behind me, I see Chuck talking to Aris, not paying attention to us.

    "What about everyone else?" I ask, turning to Thomas.

     Thomas smiles. "Quite the gossip, aren't you?"

    I start to get anxious, now regretting asking, but Thomas laughs.

    "I like how easy it is to get you flustered," he says, my face flushing in embarrassment. "I'll tell you what you need to know."

    Thomas keeps his voice low, explaining everything. "So, we've been over Minho. Then there's Zart. Narcissistic personality disorder, and a pathological liar. Roomed with Winston. We can't remember the kid's real name, he insists it's Zart."

    "Alright," I say, mentally locking that in.

    "Jeff is a sociopath, pretty self explanatory. For a kid that could kill you and feel no remorse, he's pretty cool. Good at faking it. The only thing he did was rob a store with a few friends. He's never been violent so he's not in the crazies section yet, but he doesn't have a roommate," Thomas says.

    "Yet?" I ask.

    "Newt, he's a sociopath. It's always gonna be 'yet'," Thomas says matter-of-factly.

    His delivery almost makes me laugh, but I just pout and raise my eyebrows, knowing enough not to nod. "Fair enough."

    "Now onto Aris, poor kid. Only fifteen, extremely depressed, and very anorexic. He was sent here after being hospitalized for a while. Now he's in recovery," Thomas says. "He's nice, though. Sweet. Played piano before all this, good student. Clicks well with Chuck."

    He gives the descriptions as if he's reading them off a file. How does he know all this? Do the kids tell him? It wouldn't surprise me, based off how much Chuck tells him and how much _I've_ already told him.

    "Frypan, actually Siggy, is similar. Roommates with Aris. He's a recovering binge eater, and doing really well with it too, because they let him work in the kitchen now. He also had a few... unhealthy coping mechanisms. Those are what really landed him here. But his depression has gotten a lot better now, too. To be quite honest, I'm not sure why he's even here still," Thomas says.

    Frypan sits near Minho, laughing at something he's saying. He seems the most friendly of anyone, aside from Chuck, of course.

    "That's about it for the Normals. Questions?" Thomas asks.

    There is a question that's been nagging me since I got here. "Who's Gally?"

    Thomas nods. "I figured you'd ask eventually. Gally doesn't play nicely with others. He's in solitary, he's not allowed to do things like just sitting around here. He's been here longer than I have."

    "What's he here for?" I ask.

    "He has schizophrenia. More specifically, schizophrenic psychosis. Most people with schizophrenia aren't violent, actually. But Gally is a special one," Thomas says.

    "Why does he hate you?" I ask, flashing back to the other day in the hallway.

    "He hates everyone, but me specifically. I have no idea why, he won't say," Thomas says.

    "He said something to me," I say.

    "What'd he say?" Thomas asks.

    "He told me to run while I can," I say.

    A dark look passes over Thomas' face for a moment before he shakes his head, dismissing it.

    "Ignore him. He's insane. I mean, so are we, but he's worse," Thomas says.

    "Thanks," I chuckle, moving past the subject. I want to ask him what exactly _he's_ here for, but I don't want to ruin anything. I'll find out eventually.

    "Hey, there's nothing wrong with being a little crazy, especially you. So, you nervous for Rat Man?" Thomas asks. I almost don't hear the question, stuck wondering what he meant by ' _especially you_ '.

    "To tell you the truth, I wasn't really thinking about it til just now," I say, sighing. It's the thing I've been dreading the most about this place.

    "I think he'll enjoy you," Thomas says.

    "Not creepy at all, Tommy," I laugh nervously, Thomas matching it with his own.

    "Some kids are straight up freaks, but you obviously have something deeper to delve into. Janson will have fun with that," Thomas says.

    The way Thomas talks is intriguing, like every word is carefully calculated and there's always something under the surface. I've never very much liked mysteries, but I haven't encountered many in human form before. He's more of a puzzle, and I've only got a few pieces so far.

    "Nothing much in here," I say, pointing to my head before going back to fidgeting with my hands, not even having realized I was.

_I play with my hands in my lap, shaking my head. "No, not being bullied."_

_"Never?" Dr. Hans asks._

_"No," I lie. I'm not being bullied currently, but I don't think the fourth grade counts._

_"Was the move from England tough on you?"_

_I pinch the bridge of my nose tightly and take a deep breath. "No, not at all. I was five."_

_"Do you have trouble making friends?" he asks. He's grabbing at nothing. Shots in the dark._

_"I do just fine," I say._

_"Is there something deeper? How do you feel about your friends?"_

_My mind flashes to Alby but I will the thought away. "They're... nice. Fun."_

_"How do they make you feel about yourself?"_

_My chest suddenly feels like it's going to burst, wanting to scream to let all of it out. But instead, I stand._

_"Thank you, Dr. Hans, but I think our session time is up. See you on Thursday."_

_"Newton, I know getting to the source can be difficult and scary at times, but-,"_

_At that, I walk out._

    "We'll see," Thomas says, snapping me out of my memory. He then looks up to the clock behind him, before turning back to me and rolling his eyes. "Speak of the devil. I've got therapy now."

    "Have fun," I joke, watching Thomas get up, part of me wishing he wouldn't go.

    "Oh, I will. I'll be back at lunch," Thomas says, walking across the room. "Try not to miss me too much," he says loudly to everyone.

    "No trouble there," Minho shouts back, Thomas flipping him off before exiting.

    Still a few hours til therapy, so no point in worrying now... is what a normal person would say. But the thought of Thomas in there before me is somehow comforting. He's so used to it, it can't be that bad.

    An odd worry that Thomas will talk about me in his session creeps in. Would he say bad things? Share theories on what he thinks is wrong with me? What if he just talks to me because he views this as some kind of sick game?

    It could be the anxiety talking, but there's no way to tell. Maybe I could ask Dr. Janson, or I could ask Thomas himself eventually.

    The joke is on them, though. Neither of them will find any more in me than what I've found.

    Nothing.


	15. fifteen

I sit inside the big intimidating office with my mind racing a thousand miles a minute.

    Thomas had come back about an hour after he left, me making small talk when addressed and watching everyone else joke around while he was gone. When he came back he'd announced lunch and we all made our way over to the dining area, me slower than others.

    He'd eased my mind a bit more about the therapy situation without me even asking, I'm guessing he just knew I needed it. But eventually he broke off into his own conversations with everyone else, and I was left alone with my thoughts and the occasional interaction with Chuck.

    At some point I went back to my room, cleaned a bit, time passed, and now here I am. Waiting for Dr. Janson to enter the room and start the pointless interrogation.

    "Newton."

    I jump, turning around in my seat to see Dr. Janson walking in, giving me a smile.

    "Hi." My heart catches in my throat. It feels like a job interview, but what am I interviewing for? A ticket out? That’s what this is, right? One big exam. If you pass, you’re free.

    "Hello," he says, walking over to a desk on the other side of the room. He talks while shuffling through papers. "How are you today?"

    Is that a trick question? "Alright."

    "Alright is good," he says, seeming to find the file he needs and walking over with it before finally sitting in front of me in a huge cushioned chair.

    The chair looks more comfortable than mine, my chair being the equivalent of bleachers. Then again, he could give me a beanbag and I'd still be uncomfortable.

    The room has an eerie feel, like putting a living room in the middle of a hospital. It feels wrong. Plants in the corner, paintings on the wall, and to top off the homey feeling, a barred off window.

    "So, Newt, lets start with your OCD. Have you been tested for OCPD?"

    I steady my breathing, trying to focus on his question. "Yes, I tested negative."

    "Wonderful," he says. I'm not sure 'wonderful' is a great way to put it. "Tell me about your routine."

    "Well, usually, I wake up, brush my teeth ten seconds each section, wash my hands for ten minutes, get dressed, make my bed, then get on with my day. I clean and dust my room once a day, too. But constant routine is my walking. Ten steps, snap my fingers ten times, repeat."

    "Always?" Dr. Janson asks.

    "Every day," I say.

    “Do you have to snap your fingers with a certain hand?”

    I pause. “I, uh. No. I hadn’t really thought about that. It’s just whatever hand is available, usually I use my right.”

    “Do you have to start with a certain leg?” he asks.

    Why does this matter? “No, I don’t.”

    "How have you been adjusting here? Has your routine changed?" Janson asks, thankfully not poking more holes in my routine.

    "Not much, although cleaning and dusting has gotten a bit harder. Chuck isn't the neatest kid," I say. “It doesn’t bother me as much if he keeps it to his side.

    "How have you and Chuck been getting along?" he asks.

    "Fine," I say. "He's a good kid. Extremely friendly, I like him a lot."

    "So you've been hanging out with his group of friends here, I see?"

    I can see why they call him Rat Man. He does bear a strong resemblance to the creature, with his squinty eyes and pointed nose. It almost distracts me from his question.

    "Uh, yeah. You could say that," I say.

    "Have you gotten close with anyone?" he asks.

    "Close?" My mind goes to Chuck, then to Thomas. What counts as close? Did Thomas tell him something?

    "Anyone you consider your friend," Janson says.

    "I consider Chuck my friend, yeah. I've only really talked to him and Thomas." I look for a reaction in that, but continue when I don't get one. "Everyone else is friendly, though."

    "Friendly is always nice," Janson says. "What about friends back at school?"

    Oh here we go. But as long as I'm here, I'll cooperate.

    "Not many lately," I say.

    "Why's that?" he asks. I know why, and telling him would give them the wrong idea. Maybe he'll write it off as something typical.

    "Once my walking routine started, I felt like I was holding them back. I cut them loose, no big deal," I say, regretting the words as soon as they leave my mouth.

    "Okay," he says.

    That's it? Okay?

    He opens up the file he brought with him, thumbing through the papers. "So, I have your records here, including ones from your other therapists."

    If he's seen my files from other therapists, he probably knows I lie my way through these things.

    "You're an interesting kid. Can you tell me a bit about the stories you come up with for them?” Janson asks.

    I swallow roughly. “I had nothing to say, and they wouldn’t accept that. At some point I just started making it up.”

    “Why don’t you think you have anything to say?” he asks.

    “If they think I haven’t tried digging myself to find a reason I am the way I am, they’re wrong. I know myself better than anyone, if I had some deep darkness I needed to work out, I’d know. But there’s nothing there,” I say.

    “The subconscious is an amazing thing, Newt,” he says, smiling. “Give me a fair shot and I can see if you’re right.”

    “Fair shot,” I agree, after second. I’m confident this is one I’ll win.

    “But there’s a few rules,” he says. I don’t respond, so he continues. “First, do you want to get better?”

    It’s an obvious question, but it takes me a moment to reply. “Of course.”

    “If you really want that, here’s what I need from _you_. You can’t hold back. If you want this, you need to give this a chance. There’s no harm in that. Keep an open mind,” he says.

    “Fine,” I say. If that’s what it takes to prove him wrong, then I’ll do it.

    “Thank you,” he says. “So tell me, why do you think there’s nothing in you?”

    It takes me a moment to answer. “Because there isn’t.”

    “Elaborate,” he says.

    “There just isn’t. I had a good childhood, my mother is supportive. Never had a horrible time at school, nothing huge happened to me. All the tropes, all the cliches, nothing fits. I’m just _like_ this. So ‘nothing’ is the best word to describe it, because that’s all there is,” I say.

    He’s silent, for a solid minute, making me uncomfortable enough to look away. But I don’t speak. I’ve played this game before.

    “Is that what you think of yourself?” he asks.

    _No_ , I go to say. _Of course not_.

    I say nothing.

    “As I said, you’ve been to a few therapists before,” he says. “What’s different about this?”

    I’m in a mad house, for one. “I’m here to get better?”

    “Is that a question?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. I realize for the first time that his chair is also higher than mine, allowing him to look down at me the whole session. Comforting.

    “No,” I say. “I just... the only difference is that I’m _here_ and not cooperating isn’t an option anymore, isn’t it?”

    “There’s always options, Newton,” Janson says.

    I can’t seem to find a good answer, so I nod. Then I nod nine more times, and he does nothing but watch.

    “What do you think will happen if you don’t complete your routines?” Janson asks.

    A classic. “It changes. I’m not a superstitious person, I know logically that not snapping my fingers won’t cause death to anyone. But if I don’t do it, it feels like everything is wrong or everything _will_ go wrong. Whether that be my mother or father dying, or me, or that I’ll go fully insane, or-,” I stop myself. “It’s not a specific thing for me.”

    “Alright,” he says. It strikes me that he hasn’t written down one thing during this whole session so far. Usually they’ll scribble it down if I so much as fix my hair. “Tell me more about your tens.”

 

  
Forty minutes later, Janson looks up at the clock. He hadn’t asked anything too deep or pressing, just the progression of my routine, what I choose to do ten times and what I don’t, basic getting-to-know-you stuff. For me, anyway. I don’t give him much. But now, finally, it looks to be over.

    “It seems we’re about done here, doesn’t it,” he says, turning back to face me.

    “It does,” I say.

    “Before you go, I want to give you something,” he says, getting up and crossing over to his desk once again.

    The thought crosses my mind that if he pulls out a worksheet I’ll tear it up in front of him and stomp on the pieces. Ten times.

    Instead, he picks up a notebook and walks over, handing it to me. I take it, looking at the cover and the felt tipped pen he gives me with it.

    When I don’t respond, he does.

    “One of your therapists recommended you write, and I happen to agree. You have a bright mind.” He says, stopping in front of me as I stand to meet him. “Don’t worry, it won’t be regulated or checked, but I’d like it if you’d write in it daily at least.”

    It is more homework, but it’s not completely unbearable. “Alright.”

    “You may go back to your friends now. Thank you for cooperating today, Newton. My rules may be tedious, but they’re useful,” he says, gesturing for me to walk to the door.

    I count my steps, landing on five when I’m right about to exit the room before turning back to him. “Right. Keep an open mind, and don’t hold back.”

    “One more thing,” he says, his voice troubled.

    I put a hand on the door knob, wishing I could just finally leave, but something about his face and hesitation stops me.

    He takes a deep breath, meeting my curious eyes with his serious ones before lowering his voice.

    “Be careful with Thomas.”

 


	16. sixteen

I don't see anyone for two hours after I get back, going back to my room to reflect on my therapy session while everyone else is in classes.

    Every time I go to think of what was discussed, the only thing that rings through my mind are his last words. _Be careful with Thomas_.

    What could he possibly have meant? In what way should I be careful? Is he less "normal" than he's let on? What if he's a liar? Hundreds of questions race through my head, my paranoia increasing.

    Maybe the Thomas I know is just an illusion. Someone I created in my mind to fit what I wanted him to be. After all, I really don't even know anything about him. Does Chuck? How would he do this to everyone?

    The notebook I was given sits on the bed next to me. If I can't trust Thomas, maybe I _should_ take to writing my thoughts and feelings.

    Eventually five rolls around, second medication time—which I manage to sneak through without being seen—then six. Dinner.

    I groan to myself as I get out of bed, wishing I didn't have to do anything. Therapy, while not entirely helpful, is draining. Especially when you try.

    It takes me a while to get to dinner, the lack of motivation being a main reason for it. But when I get there, the tone is jarring. At first glance, the whole Normals table is nothing but quiet.

    If I had anywhere else to sit, I'd sit there now. I'm looking for an empty spot elsewhere when I hear Chuck.

    "Newt." I turn to the boy who's now patting the seat next to him, same one I'd used the day before.

    I walk over in larger steps with dread seeping into my brain, having to only pause once before making it over and sitting down. A few of them look up to nod greetings, but other than that they're eerily somber as I uncomfortably finish my tens.

    My gaze absentmindedly switches to Thomas, who hasn't looked up from his plate. Almost none of his food has been eaten, the boy just staring at it and occasionally pushing it around with his fork.

    "Here you go," I jump when I hear the voice from behind me. It's Frypan, setting down my plate in front of me and nodding.

    "Thanks," I say so softly _I_ can barely hear it before awkwardly picking my fork up, thankful for a distraction.

    Tension builds up for another five minutes like that. Fry joins us at some point, but he eats in silence too, not helping the situation. Finally, Minho breaks the silence.

    "When are we going to hear something? It's been an entire day at this point, and what, they expect us to believe nothing has changed?" he nearly yells. I feel Chuck tense up next to me and the urge to hug the kid suddenly overwhelms me.

    "They'll tell us something," Thomas mutters, still staring down.

    At least I have an answer now. Of course, it's Winston that they're all upset over. They really haven't heard anything by now?

    "Why would they? We're not even people to them," Minho says angrily, his volume not lowering. "They're not gonna tell us—"

    "That's _enough_." Thomas cuts him off sharply, finally looking up from his plate. He looks at Chuck, his face softening. "You alright, bud?"

    Chuck nods, looking embarrassed but grateful for Thomas' interjection.

    Minho seems to calm down slightly, pulling himself back. "I'm sorry, Chuck. I am, I just... I wish they would tell us. It's not fair."

    "It's okay," Chuck says, obviously trying and failing to sound unbothered.

    "We have to hear eventually. I'll ask tomorrow, if it makes you feel better. He's probably in recovery," Thomas says unconvincingly.

    Minho doesn't respond, the tightness of his fist on the table making me nervous.

    "Newt." My head snaps up, looking at Thomas. "How was therapy?"

    My heart beats fast in my chest, meeting his eyes. "It was fine."

    "See? There was nothing to be nervous about," Thomas says with a small smile.

    I need to find out as much about Thomas as soon as I can. What could he have done to make a therapist feel the need to tell me to be _careful_ with him?

    What does that even mean? Don't talk to him? Has he given the same advice to Chuck? Can _Dr. Janson_ even be trusted? I haven't trusted therapists up to this point. Maybe I can only trust myself. This is a mental institution, after all. Making friends wasn't exactly on the agenda.

    The rest of dinner goes by without many words exchanged, everyone either too upset over Winston or walking on eggshells because of Minho. But I don't mind, not being in a particularly chatty mood.

    Before I leave the dining room, Chuck calls for me to wait for him. I do, not wanting to be rude, and keep the number four strongly in my head while waiting by the door.

    Chuck is talking to Thomas, smiling in response to something he'd said a moment before. I only realize I'm staring when Thomas' eyes look up to meet mine, making me look away abruptly.

    The only thought that calms the blossoming anxiety in my chest is the fact that I'm not expected to be normal here. And apparently I'm doing a better job than Thomas.

    It takes another minute but finally I hear the sound of Chuck approaching and look up again to the boy, who's now wearing as cheery a smile as ever.

    "Hey, Newt. So, therapy went well?" He begins walking and I try to keep up, taking bigger strides and continuing my count.

    "It did," I say simply. There's silence until I have to stop to snap my fingers, sighing as I complete the task.

    Chuck looks at me and laughs a little, making me frown.

    "Sorry," Chuck laughs. "It's just... you don't _have_ to do that. You could just walk forward and keep going and nothing will happen because of it."

    "You could just stop having panic attacks." The words come out more bitter than intended and I almost wince at them, finishing my ten and freezing. "Chuck, I didn't—"

    "You're not wrong," Chuck says, walking forward. As far as I can tell, his tone hasn't changed. "But I can't. Just like you can't stop doing _that_."

    "That's probably why they put us together," I say, recalling Thomas' words from earlier. He's with Minho, Aris is with Frypan. It'd make sense.

    Chuck beams as we stop again, nodding. "You're right! We're a good team."

    I manage a smile before we resume walking. Thomas is questionable, but one thing is for sure... I can trust this kid.

 

  
"Can you play checkers? Or will you only be able to play with ten pieces or something?"

    I look up from my book to Chuck, who's sitting on the floor with the game in his hands, his expression too hopeful to say no to.

    "I can play checkers just fine," I say, getting up and walking over to sit in front of Chuck. His gleeful face while setting the game up makes it worth it, watching him divide the pieces.

    After a few minutes of playing, Chuck being a lot better than I am, I decide it's an okay time to start getting some answers from him. He's in the zone, he'll barely notice.

    "Do you play this with Thomas a lot?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant about it.

    "He's the best, he taught me everything. It helps him stay grounded to reality, apparently," Chuck says casually, taking another one of my pieces.

    Maybe he doesn't know that I don't know a lot about Thomas. That could be my angle, get information by pretending it's not news. I feel bad about taking advantage of Chuck, but nobody has to know.

    "That makes sense, with the hallucinations and all," I say, taking a shot in the dark. It's gotta be what he has. So is he schizophrenic?

    "It makes him focus," Chuck says.

    I move my piece and try my luck, staying on the subject.

    "It's nice that you have him. You guys seem really close," I say.

    "We are. When I showed up he'd only been back here for a little while, and I apparently reminded him of his little sister, so we stuck together," Chuck says. "Your turn."

    I snap out of my momentary stunned state and move one of my pieces, not really paying attention to the game. Chuck just gave me a _lot_ of information. How many people know about Thomas' sister, and what did he mean about _back_ here?

    "He seems to have a bit of a reputation here," I say, hoping the blanket statement will make him talk more.

    "That's an understatement," Chuck laughs. "He's too smart for the staff. They don't like him very much."

    "I can tell," I say. "He seems to be good with Dr. Janson, though."

    "What gave you that idea?" Chuck asks. "Rat Man hates him."

    "Why?" I ask. When Chuck looks up at me quizzically, I know I've pushed too far.

    "Thomas hasn't... never mind," he says, zoning back in on the game.

    I debate pressing further, but decide against it. Chuck is a loyal kid, and if he gave something away he'd go running to Thomas. I can't have that.

    The rest of the game, I do nothing but mull over the new information. It's impossible that the more I find out about Thomas, the more of a mystery he becomes. Endless theories take over my train of thought, causing me to lose horribly to the younger boy. He rubs the victory in my face until I excuse myself to the bathroom, walking down the hall to it slowly.

    It's an intimidating place with people posted everywhere, with waiting eyes. I can't even imagine what they've seen attempted here. The thought always makes me shiver when I walk in there.

    I've only just finished a round of tens, hating the echo of my snaps off the tile, when I see him at the sink, a nurse watching him, looking conflicted.

    It's Thomas, his hands gripping the corners of the metal, his head down. It only takes me a second to notice.

    He's crying.


	17. seventeen

"Tommy?" The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them, taking a step forward.

    Thomas shakes his head, not lifting it.

    "Tommy, what's wrong?" I ask, taking another step. I hesitate, but put my hand on his shoulder, hoping it'll help somehow. It feels awkward, but also right, so I keep it there.

    After a few painstaking seconds, Thomas finally looks up at me, his face red, puffy and tear-stained.

    "He's dead, Newt," he says, his voice quiet and broken.

    My heart feels like it's slowed, trying to process the information through my head. _Winston_. How can he be dead? This sort of thing happens all the time, right? Why couldn't they save him?

    "H-how? How could that..." I trail off, realizing that the 'how' doesn't matter. That's not what this is about.

    "He was in stable condition," Thomas starts, his speech choked up. "Then tonight his body went into shock and they couldn't pull him out."

    "Who told you? I mean, how do you know it's true?" I ask.

    "I called his mom," Thomas says. I start to wonder how he has his parent's phone number, but the thought passes quickly. "I didn't even say I was sorry, I didn't say _anything_. I just hung up."

    I listen to Thomas, wishing I had something to say. I'm upset too, despite not really having known Winston. He was just a kid. He didn't deserve this.

    "I—"

    "How am I going to tell the others?" Thomas asks. "How do I tell them he's gone?"

    "I don't know," I say truthfully. "Maybe just tell them what you told me. They'll be upset, of course, but it's better than being in the dark."

    "They're gonna blame me," Thomas says. "What if it _was_ my fault? What if I killed him?"

    "You said it yourself, nothing was different," I say, suddenly very aware of the nurses there again. Thomas should probably refrain from saying this sort of thing around them, but for some reason they look disinterested.

    "But still," Thomas says. "And if it wasn't my fault, it was this place. They didn't give him what he needed. They don't give _me_ what _I_ need. Any way you slice it, they killed Winston."

    "Why don't you tell them they're giving you the wrong—"

    "They don't _listen_ , Newt," Thomas says forcefully, another tear falling from his face. "They don't do anything, they never do."

    I stay silent for a moment. My hand is still on Thomas' shoulder and I'm not sure if I should move it, but something tells me not to. I'm about to speak when Thomas does something unexpected, catching me off guard.

    In an instant, his arms are around me, his head buried in my shoulder. I freeze for a moment, but then hug him back, putting my arms around him and hands on his back, letting my head rest on his shoulder. It doesn't feel awkward or wrong like I'm expecting it to. It comes naturally, me subconsciously starting to rub his back.

    We stay like that for a few long moments, and it gives me a minute to think. Maybe I can't give him my full trust yet, but he can't be a bad person. He's just a boy. He's a boy that's standing here crying in my arms. That's not a person I'd say I'd need to be careful with.

    Thomas eventually pulls away, shaking his head. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry, I... I hope you're not uncomfortable with—"

    "No," I cut him off. "You're good, okay?" No, definitely not a threat.

    Thomas nods once, before his face falls from nervous back to upset. "I don't know what to do."

    "Be honest. You need them and they need you, you're all in the same boat here," I say. "They won't blame you for anything."

    Thomas looks at me before taking a deep breath. "I can't stand it here, Newt."

    It's heartbreaking, really. The lot of us all here without any family, the only people available to talk to being each other and the therapist. I hadn't realized how long some of them have been here. At this point are they here to get better, or to be away from society?

    "You'll get out, okay?" I say it just to say it.

    "Yeah," Thomas responds, seeming to believe it about as much as I do.

    "What does this mean for this place?" I ask. "A patient overdosed on their watch, what now?"

    "I don't know," Thomas says. "Once they figure out what was in his system they'll take it from there."

    "It wasn't your fault," I say. "You'll be alright."

    Thomas looks down for a second before meeting my eyes again. "You're a good person, Newt. I'm sorry you're here. You, Chuck... you should be home. Anywhere else."

    "Chuck will be out of here soon," I say, hoping it's true. "And so will I."

    "You're right," Thomas nods, something in his expression changing. "You will. Night, Newt."

    With that, Thomas leaves, not even giving me time to say goodnight back.

 

  
When I get back to my room, there's so much going on in my mind that I'm not sure how I'll be able to sleep. Chuck seems to be sleeping soundly—for now, at least—in his bed, which is good because I’m not in the mood to talk. If he was up, I know I’d wind up telling him about Winston.

    It’s difficult to process, someone I only saw yesterday being gone the next. Just a child, someone that was in the same position I’m in. He should have gotten the help he needed.

    I have to snap my fingers quietly as to not wake Chuck, but something tells me he’s a deep sleeper aside from the panic attacks. When I get into bed, all I can do is stare at the ceiling and think about my new mess of a life. New people, new surroundings, new bed, new everything. Chuck. Winston. Thomas.

    There’s too much I don’t know. Thomas is still a mystery, as is Dr. Janson, and as for Winston... how did he die? Did he OD on purpose? Did something really go wrong with what TIMI gave him?

    I close my eyes as the anxiety starts bubbling up in my chest, clouding my brain. I haven’t even been here three days yet, and already too much has happened.

    Suddenly the road to recovery seems longer than ever.


	18. eighteen

Waking up is the last thing I want to do today.

    As soon as consciousness floods through me, the dreadful news from last night comes with it. Along with the sound of what seems to be the world's loudest alarm. Picturing hitting the alarm with a hammer ten times is the beautiful fantasy that helps me begin to drift off again.

    Until someone's turning off the alarm. Surprisingly enough, the silence is more irritating than the noise.

    "Morning, Newt," Chuck says, my eyes refusing to open. I'm sure I answer him, but apparently it's a figment of my half asleep state because he speaks again, startling me. " _Newt_."

    I open my eyes and squint, blinking a few times before reaching up to rub my exhausted face, trying to force some life into it. Chuck laughs and I just groan back, sitting up.

    He's gathering his clothes, and I can't help but wonder how he looks so awake. I'd say it's the fact that he's fourteen, but being three years off can't make that bit of a difference. Although, I guess he's used to this schedule by now.

    It occurs to me that being as kind to him as I can today is important. He's about to receive some really bad news.

    "Morning, Chuck," I say, my words sluggish with sleep.

    Chuck grins up at me and I feel something tug at my heart.

 

  
I have to tap my feet on the ground four times once I sit down at the table. Throwing myself into thinking about my routines is the only way I'm going to survive the day.

    Dr. Janson has placed me in Group A for group therapy, and according to the board, it's at eleven o'clock today. Four and a half hours away.

    Chuck is next to me rambling about something I don't listen to, since it's being directed at the whole table. I don't pay attention to the conversation around me. I don't even pay attention to the food Frypan brings me.

    All I do is semi-discreetly watch Thomas. He's staring down at the table wordlessly and nobody seems to notice much, going along with whatever they're doing. But I notice, and it makes anxiety rise up in me.

    How's he going to tell them? Here? In the recreation room? At group therapy? Is he going to tell them at all?

    The urge to drag him away from the table and talk to him is a strong one, but also something I could never pull off. He's directly across from me, and a part of me is disappointed he hasn't acknowledged me—the only other person that knows his horrible news—yet. I could help him break it to everyone.

    But instead, he stares down at the table.

 

  
"This is stupid," I mumble to myself, staring down at the journal below me.

    I'm laying on my stomach on top of my bed, propped up on my elbows and hovering my pen over the page. I feel like a bloody idiot, to be honest.

    So that's what I write. I write about feeling like an idiot for writing. Then, I write about the felt tipped pen.

    After that, I don't stop writing.

    For the next hour and a half, I do nothing but write. I write about being told to come here, I write about arriving, I write about Chuck, I write about the Normals. The only things I tend to leave out are Thomas and/or Winston related. Those can stay in my head.

    I only stop when my hand is so cramped up it hurts to keep moving the pen. For some reason, it's a good feeling. Like I've actually done something right for the first time in a while. Therapy isn't my thing, but maybe there _is_ a bit of a point to the journal.

    I click the pen closed, then repeat the motion until I've done it ten times before putting it down on top of the closed journal. Where am I going to put this thing? It's not like I don't trust Chuck, but having him accidentally read it isn't on the top of my 'want list' at the moment.

    Deciding on the top drawer of my dresser, I get up and hide it, before sitting on the edge of the bed and tapping my feet six times. I snap my fingers ten times, then lean back, lying down on the bed. It's nine, and medication time is in an hour.

    Nap time.

 

  
I manage to avoid everyone until almost eleven, Chuck walking into our room with the usual smile. He doesn't look like he's just been told anything bad, which is both a relief and more stressful.

    "You were put in Group A, right?" Chuck asks. "We start in a few minutes, so we should probably get going."

    "Do I have to talk?" I ask, getting up. I definitely don't want to go, especially not today. Especially not knowing what I know.

    "It's your first day, so they might ask you to do an introduction, but you're not forced to say anything." Chuck waits for me to get to the door, opening it while I snap my fingers.

    "Good to know, then," I say, walking out.

    On the way there, Chuck talks quite a lot, so I let him without saying much myself. I give him the occasional hum in agreement and maybe a word or two, but mostly my nerves are running high. That's _with_ the medication. Without it, I don't want to know how I'd be feeling right now.

    I start my next round of tens as we walk in, and my eyes meet Thomas' immediately. They're all sat in a circle of chairs, and it kinda reminds me of a movie. Chuck practically skips over to sit next to Thomas, who breaks our eye contact now to look at him.

    He looks stressed and extremely tired. It's about how I'm feeling, but he's making no effort at all to hide it. Glancing at Chuck, he looks a bit nervous after his initial greeting to Thomas.

    Suddenly I remember that I actually have to sit down, and am hit with a wave of anxious disappointment when I see there's no seat beside Chuck. However, the seat next to Thomas is open.

    I try to walk to it with my remaining eight steps, but fall short. Seriously? Everyone is seated, and now I have to stand here and snap my fingers ten times before taking the last two or so steps.

    Looking down while I finish them, I can feel Thomas' eyes on me. That's just perfect. When I'm done, I finish walking to the seat and sit down, tapping my feet down seven times, trying to pretend nobody else is there. But for someone like me, that's impossible.

    Someone starts talking then, making me look up while snapping. It's Dr. Ava Paige, and she's smiling right at me.

    "Hello everyone, we have a new face here today," she says, my blood going cold at the attention.

    I don't nod, knowing how that'd go, but instead give a quick and extremely awkward halfhearted tight lipped smile before looking down. Please don't make me speak.

    "Would you like to talk about anything today, Newton?" she asks. Today is not my day.

    "I, um." My voice is extremely small as I shake my leg in tens and play with the sleeve of my shirt, feeling like I could fall apart at any second. "Not really."

    "That's perfectly fine. It's good to see you here," she says, as if I had a choice. Her voice is strange. It's the weirdest mix of cold and calm. She sounds more like a stern principal than someone like a mother, and you can't read her tone at all. Something tells me Thomas has fun analyzing her.

    I try to stay in my head while she continues, making observations about the tile on the floor and looking up at the lights on the ceiling. They kinda remind me of the ones we had at school, which makes me look away. Somehow, a mental institution makes me less uneasy than high school.

    Random people start talking. A few of the Normals are in here as well, like Frypan, Aris and Minho. Fry speaks briefly about himself, and I decide to tune back in to hear it. He's a nice kid, always a sweet smile on his face despite what he's been through.

    He talks about his new meal plan and how he's starting to feel more comfortable with it, then suddenly it gets a bit more serious. Before I can stop listening, he's already saying the words.

    "So all that is getting better, but... this whole thing with Winston's really shaking me up, y'know?" he says, shaking his head. I have to physically stop myself from looking at Thomas, not wanting to be obvious.

    "I can imagine," Dr. Paige says, giving a curt nod in his direction.

    "He's my friend, it's just—it's scary. I don't like not knowing what's happening," he says.

    Dr. Paige's face remains unchanged, set in creepily rehearsed looking sympathy. A question occurs to me then. Does she know about Winston? Has she been told? If she has, is she just going to listen to him talk about this and say nothing?

    "Thomas, are you alright?"

    I turn to Thomas at her words to see him get up from his seat.

    He's breathing heavily and rapidly, his eyes wide but laser focused on Dr. Paige, and he looks to be the most frightening mixture of terrified and angry I've ever seen.

    He begins to back up when Dr. Paige stands as well, shaking his head and his eyes becoming glassy.

    "Don't you dare," Thomas says, his voice shaky, broken, filled with rage and getting louder by the second. "Don't you _dare_ come near me."


	19. nineteen

"Thomas, whatever you're seeing, it's not really there. I'm me, I'm Dr. Ava Paige, you know me," Dr. Paige says slowly, not moving from her spot.

    "I know _exactly_ who you are, I know what I'm seeing," Thomas says, a tear falling from his eye. He's shaking like a leaf, and with the way his face is twisted, he looks like a completely different person from the one I've known these past few days.

    "What _are_ you seeing?" Dr. Paige asks, the calmness in her voice baffling me.

    Thomas blinks a few times, backing up more. "You're a monster."

    "Really look at me, Thomas," Dr. Paige says.

    "I _am_!" Thomas yells, the sob escaping him breaking his voice.

    "Maybe you need some rest," Dr. Paige says.

    What happened? Why would he suddenly be acting out like this? Maybe it happens often, I wouldn't know. He's not here for model behavior. But the worry I see in Chuck's, Minho's and Frypan's eyes tells a different story.

    "I don't need rest," Thomas says, his voice uneven. "This is your fault, this is all your fault."

    "I think it's time to go back to your room, Thomas," Dr. Paige says.

    Two bigger looking nurses walk up to Thomas in sync, the boy not glancing at them once. The rage isn't gone, but something changes in his face as they walk over. One of them grabs Thomas' arm and he shrugs them off, never breaking his eyes away from Dr. Paige.

    "I'll go," he says, nodding his head. He starts walking towards the door but stops before he gets there turning back, the nurses right behind him. "But I know what you did."

    "Okay, Thom—"

    "Aren't you gonna ask?" Thomas asks, the sadness in his voice overpowering the anger as more tears steadily run down his face.

    "Let's go," one of the nurses says then, grabbing Thomas' arm again and walking him towards the door. I want to yell for them to stop, but the fact that none of his friends have moved makes me think it'd be a bad idea.

    Last second, Thomas breaks out of the nurse's grasp and turns to look at Dr. Paige.

    "You killed Winston."

 

  
The rest of group is cancelled due to Thomas' outburst; and the ones that followed. It only took two minutes from Thomas leaving to everyone else leaving, Minho yelling and even Frypan and Aris speaking up. Chuck did a small bit of yelling, but it was quickly reduced to just sobbing. The chaos made everyone else erupt into talking and yelling.

    So, Dr. Paige declared the session to be over and calmly informed us that if anyone still wanted to share something, that they could come to her office. Minho and a few others were escorted to their rooms, and Chuck was let go with me after a panic attack that took three nurses to snap him out of.

    I told him he could walk back to our room without waiting for me, but he quietly told me it was alright and walked with me anyway. When I tried to get him to speak, he wouldn't say a word the whole way back, which I've decided is way worse than a breakdown.

    Then came lunch, which Thomas nor Minho made an appearance at. There was no talking there, either. Apparently information moves quickly around here.

    Zart didn't look up at us once, and I feel horrible for him. Winston was his roommate.

    Chuck doesn't go to his normal class at four, the both of us only coming out twice for the rest of the day to take our medication and go to dinner. We're now lying down on our beds, me writing into my journal and him facing away. I've asked him a hundred times if he wants to talk, but each time am met with a polite decline or a simple shake of his head.

    I write about Chuck, mostly. Writing about other people feels like a betrayal, somehow. Like I'm snitching on them. But I try to remind myself that I'm just writing observations, events. Not their deep secrets. It's most likely nothing Dr. Janson hasn't heard before.

    Then, my mind wanders—as it always does, lately—to Thomas. This could definitely be what Dr. Janson meant by being careful with him. Though through the whole thing, he'd never gotten violent. Vaguely threatening, maybe, but not violent. He'd even gone with the nurses when approached.

    Had he been hallucinating? He called her a monster, he could have meant it literally considering he looked terrified. But above all, his final words are stuck in my head. _You killed Winston_.

    That's basically what he'd told me last night. If that's what was going through his head, the outburst makes a lot of sense. The fact that they must know about him, mixed with the fact that he died under their watch, was probably too much for him.

    So I write about him. About Dr. Janson’s warning, about the mystery of him, small things I’ve noticed. I leave out the personal conversations, but getting everything else down on paper is freeing.

    I can only hope now that they haven't placed him or Minho in solitary. They had every right to cause the commotion they did. Their friend is dead.

 

  
When I come back from the bathroom an hour or so later, Chuck is sat up, looking at me. I take the next two steps into the room, closing the door behind me and snapping my fingers, gazing at him expectantly.

    "Hey," I say lamely, finishing the round of ten before starting the next one as I walk to sit on my bed.

    "Hi," Chuck says, waiting for me finish the next round of tens. I sit down facing him, ending on three and having to tap my feet on the ground before being able to snap my fingers again. The whole thing is making it very difficult to talk to Chuck.

    "How're you feeling?" I ask, finally being able to sit cross legged on my bed.

    "Terrible," Chuck says. His whole face is red and puffy, his curly hair matted to his forehead. He should never have to be this upset. "I just can't believe it. He was perfectly fine a few days ago."

    "I know," I say. "Things like drug addictions are really hard to come back from sometimes."

    "It's not fair. He was here, he was supposed to be getting better. Thomas is right," Chuck says.

    I want to ask him questions about Thomas, but I hold myself back. "It _isn't_ fair. This shouldn't have happened. Sometimes things like—"

    "No," Chuck cuts him off. "No, this was their fault. Winston should be here."

    The younger boy's lack of tears right now, having been replaced with a saddened determination, scares me. I've only known him a couple of days, but it seems very unlike him.

    "Okay," I say, deciding to tread lightly. "Well, we haven't heard the exact results yet. Once we do, we'll figure it out, yeah?"

    Chuck ponders this for a moment, then nods. "Okay."

    "Right, then," I say. "I'm sorry. I really, really am. I know how much he meant to you all."

    Chuck nods again. "Yeah."

    I offer him a small smile, trying my best to sound genuine. "We're gonna hurry up and get better for him, alright? He'd want that for you."

    Chuck gives me a small smile for a moment, making me let out a breath I’d been holding. I'd gone out on a limb with that one. "Thanks, Newt."

    "'Course," I say. Chuck lets out a long sigh and flops himself down onto his bed again.

    "I'm gonna try to sleep," he says, turning his head towards me.

    "Me too. If you need me, wake me up, okay? I'm here," I say.

    Before I started becoming... the way I am, I was the go-to for advice for a lot of people. I'm not bad at it, I'll admit that much. My pep talks always seemed to help people out, and I liked doing that for them; my mother, my friends, even my dad sometimes.

    Then, my anxiety hit. Followed by everything else. It became impossible, and I was dealing with too much of my own for anyone else to even think about asking. Not that I didn't try, but it just stopped.

    "I will," Chuck agrees.

    It doesn't take me long to drift off from the emotionally draining day.


	20. twenty

The next five days go by excruciatingly slowly. Every day is the same. Wake up, breakfast, medication, lunch/group, more medication, dinner, then go to sleep. I write in my journal. I talk to Chuck.

    My mother calls a couple of times, and every time she asks the same questions. I never tell her anything too specific, she doesn't even know about Winston. Just Chuck and my routine.

    Whenever I ask her about herself and my father, she'll stumble over her reply, and it's starting to bother me. Maybe she misses me. Maybe it's something more.

    The majority of the Normals are still quiet. Solemn. Angry. Especially Minho, who'd joined us at breakfast again the day after the incident in group. He's still angry, his mood swings a lot worse than before, according to Chuck.

    As for Thomas, I wouldn't know. Because I haven't seen him since those nurses took him away.

    Whenever I ask Chuck about him, he says it's happened before and that he'll be back soon. But for some reason, his tone is never as convincing as it should be. His panic attacks haven't been helped by the whole ordeal.

    This isn't the description of my week that I give Dr. Janson now, as I sit in front of him.

    "It's been fine," I say, avoiding his gaze. It's technically not a lie, I'm not miserable. Well, not any more than usual.

    "Okay, anything you'd like to point out specifically? I know you and the others have been having a hard time dealing with the loss of one of your friends," Janson says, crossing his legs and leaning forward.

    "I feel bad for them," I say. "It's not like we were best friends, I barely knew him. But he was a good kid, and they really cared for him. He didn't deserve what he got."

    It's hard not to blame everyone that works here personally. Every time I look at one of the nurses, Dr. Ava Paige, the person that gives us medication, _anyone_ , I hear Thomas' words.

    "He didn't, it's a true shame. Sometimes a kid comes in here that can't be helped," Janson says.

    What kind of thing is that to say to a patient? I've already had enough doubts as it is. Winston was a different case, of course. More of a rehabilitation situation. But still, what could he possibly mean by that? Of course he could have been helped. They were in charge of him, and there to do exactly that.

    "D'you know what happened?" I ask, meeting his eyes and trying to sound as casual as I can. "How he overdosed, I mean."

    Janson gives me a prolonged and completely unreadable look that makes my heart start pounding, trying to keep calm before he eventually speaks.

    "The toxicology reports haven't been done yet," he says. "So, no. But that's classified at the moment, Newton."

    I resist my urge to nod, choosing to look away from his eyes. "Alright."

    "Let's talk about you," Janson says, switching the subject quickly. "Have you been writing in the journal?"

    "I have, actually."

    "That's good to hear," Janson says. "Has it helped?"

    "I guess," I say. Writing things down is nice, but I don't want to give him the satisfaction of completely admitting it. "Did you want to read it?"

    "Like I told you, it's not being regulated or checked," Janson says. Oh, yeah. So that means I've been holding back for nothing? "Do _you_ want me to?"

    "No," I respond too quickly. "I just forgot, sorry."

    "Don't apologize," Janson says. "I'd like to ask you some questions, if that's alright."

    "Okay."

    "First off, did you ever drink, smoke or do drugs?" Janson asks, squinting his eyes a bit and proving his Rat Man title further.

    I shake my head in response as a reflex, wishing I hadn't when I have to keep going to complete the ten. "No, never."

    "Did your friends?" Janson asks.

    "I s'pose," I say. "They'd go to parties, but I never would. Part of the reason we stopped hanging out."

    "Why's that?" Janson asks, as if it's a bad thing to not engage in underage drinking or the usage of illegal drugs.

    "It's not legal, and not my thing," I say. "Plus, I could never do that to my parents. They'd kill me."

    "Are you afraid of getting in trouble? Or are you afraid of disappointing them?" Janson says.

    I have to take a moment to think about my answer. "Both, I guess."

    "Do you believe they wouldn't love you if you did those things?" he asks.

    "I think they'd still love me, but they wouldn't trust me. Plus, I definitely don't need another rift between my dad and me," I say. Janson raises his eyebrows at the last bit, making me want to scream as I realize my mistake. That's going to open up a can of worms that I don't feel like getting into.

    "Another rift? What kind of rift is there?" Janson asks.

    "I dunno, we just don't get each other," I say, hoping to move through the topic as quickly as possible. "Isn't that normal? It's not like we're fighting all the time."

    "Of course," Janson says, giving me no hint as to what he's actually responding to. "What do you think he doesn't get?"

    "I don't know, he just doesn't understand who I am lately. Not that I can blame him, I mean, _I_ don't even understand who I am," I say.

    "Does your mother help?" Janson asks.

    "She's kinda like our translator. She's the buffer between us, I've got no idea how we would get along without her," I say.

    "How long has it been like this? What was your relationship like before?"

    "I guess it started when my OCD started," I say. "Before it... I guess we got on well. He'd take me to games, we'd go to the movies together, all of the things you're supposed to do. I even used to give him advice."

    "What changed?" Janson asked.

    "I don't see what this has to—"

    "Don't hold back and keep an open mind, right?" Janson says, the reminder sounding more like a warning.

    I take a deep breath and start again. "I got older, I got like _this_ , and he stopped asking."

    "Do you miss being close with him?" Janson says.

    "Sometimes," I say.

    Janson nods, waiting a beat before speaking. "Would you like to arrange a family therapy session?"

    I'm immediately conflicted. It sounds great to get to see my parents, but thinking about the reality of talking about all of my problems to them and dragging them into it isn't as appealing. "When would that be?"

    "We could make it as soon as two days from now," Janson says. "I believe it could help bring you all closer together."

    Against my better judgement, I find myself speaking. "I'll do it, then."


	21. twenty one

I've almost become used to not seeing Thomas at the table for breakfast. I can pretty much hold a conversation with any of the Normals now, if they feel like talking. Frypan is polite, he tells me a bit about his progress. He can probably sense I'm also looking to get better.

    Him and Aris are in the EDU, but eat and hang out with us since they're medically cleared and the wings are right next to each other. Frypan has been here for quite a few months, but he expects to leave soon. At this point, he works here more than he's a patient. He's lucky, he came here knowing his problem and how to fix it. Some of us aren't that fortunate.

    I'm making smalltalk with him and Chuck about my family therapy tomorrow when the door opens, and we all look to it. I can't help the way my eyes widen and my jaw slacks a bit as he walks in, timidly making his way to the table.

    "Hey, guys," Thomas says, his eyes scanning all of our faces. When he lands on me, I close my mouth quickly, trying to collect my shock.

    Chuck quickly getting up from his seat makes me jump, watching him run over and hug the older boy. He looks tired and vaguely ill, his t-shirt hanging extra loosely off of his body. While he hugs Chuck, he rubs his back, speaking to him.

    "How've you been, buddy?" he asks, Chuck pulling away.

    "Same as always, shuckface," Chuck says. "What about you?"

    "I'm alright," Thomas says, Chuck walking him over to sit down.

    Of course, Thomas takes a seat directly next to me, Chuck sitting to his left and me to his right. The rest of the group says their hellos, but I miss them, trying not to focus on the elbow brushing against my forearm.

    He says hello back to them, Frypan getting up to retrieve his food. There doesn't seem to be any of the hostility he thought there'd be, even if it is a bit awkward. They don't look angry at him, though. I'm grateful for it, especially for Chuck's benefit.

    "So, Newt, how's your first week been?" Thomas asks, turning to me. His tone is half sarcastic but also genuine, and his face is a little too close to mine.

    I almost laugh at the question, but decide that it might not be the best idea. "I can safely say that it's been the most unusual of my life," I say.

    "You're not here for usual," he says, bumping my knee softly with his. Usually it'd bother me, but it's forgotten quickly when he continues talking. "Have you had any progress?"

    "I'm not sure. I'm still doing my tens, I don't feel like my problems have vanished," I say. All I want to ask, though, is where on Earth he's been for nearly a week.

    "So, no big revelation yet?" Thomas asks. "Give it time, and stick with me."

    I subtly gulp. "Alright."

    Thomas flashes a small and very private smile in my direction, then turns back to the others, starting to catch up with them. The backflip my heart does is more than concerning. Anxiety will apparently never be a thing of the past.

 

  
I only get a few weird looks as I walk into the recreation room after breakfast, trailing behind the rest of the group. It's not because of my tens, either.

    Every day for the past week, I haven't hung out with everyone else. Usually there'd be nobody to talk to, or I wanted to write in my journal. But today, I go.

    "Newt, you're joining us? Thank you for gracing all of us lowly beings with your presence," Minho says dramatically, bowing his head as I pass his seat.

    "Shut up, Minho." Thomas' hand reaches out and slaps Minho across the back of the head, the nurse in the corner of the room moving to attention.

    "It's fine, George. He's just a jerk," Minho says, dismissing the man.

    Thomas is sitting in the seat to my left, up against the wall. I stand awkwardly between the boys, paused on four and trying to pick a place to sit. It's high school all over again.

    "Sit here, Newt," Thomas says then, looking up at me and patting the chair next to him. Okay, so maybe it's _not_ high school. "And Minho, leave him be. You weren't very social at first either."

    I sit down and tap my feet while I listen to Minho reply, feeling partially flattered and partially embarrassed that Thomas is defending me from a joke.

    "Chill out, dude. I was kidding. But I won't bother your boyfriend anymore if it bothers you that much," Minho says, a smirk on his face.

_Boyfriend_? My face immediately heats up, distracting me from starting to snap my fingers. Minho just called me Thomas' boyfriend. Is that what he thinks? Did he mean that, or was his teasing just that—a joke?

    "You're hilarious," Thomas says, rolling his eyes. His face doesn't seem to hold nearly the amount of embarrassment that mine must, so I attempt to hide it from my expression. There's nothing to even be flustered over, it's not like it's _true_. But I hate how nervous it makes me.

    "What?" I completely miss the next thing Thomas says, but he's looking at me.

    "You were on two," he says, pointing to my hand. I quite literally snap back to reality, continuing with my ten.

    "Thanks," I say, Thomas smiling.

    "What else am I here for?" Thomas says, before furrowing his eyebrows. "Don't answer that. Anyway, what's new?"

    How often is there something new going on in this place? Luckily, I have an answer. "I've got family therapy tomorrow."

    Thomas' expression darkens. "Good luck."

    "Is it really that bad?" I ask.

    "That's like asking if getting beheaded is really that bad," Minho chimes in.

    "My first family therapy session was terrible," Chuck says, plopping down into the seat beside Minho. "I barely talk to my parents anymore because of it."

    I start to get anxious. Up 'til now, I've been excited to see them again. Janson said it'd help, so I figured maybe we could connect and actually make some progress. Apparently, that's not the case.

    "It's all yelling and blaming. Family therapy was the worst creation in the history of psychology," Minho says.

    "Alright, enough. You're scaring him," Thomas says. I want to scoff and tell him that I'm not a baby, that I can handle it. But they _are_ scaring me, and I'm too caught up in it to say anything in defense.

    "He _should_ be scared," Minho says, Chuck nodding.

    "Well, Newt, do you get along with your parents?" Thomas asks.

    "I do," I say quickly. "Well, more my mother than my father, but I do."

    "Did Rat Man suggest it for a reason?" Thomas asks.

    Isn't this supposed to be confidential? Why should I have to answer this? But for some reason, I reply anyway. "I think so. He said it'd help. I told him my dad didn't understand me, and that started a whole big thing."

    " _Huge_ mistake there, pal," Minho says, not taking his eyes off of the TV as he speaks.

    "It might be a good thing, it could be the root of something," Thomas says. "But him figuring out what it _is_ will be the hard part."

    "Yeah, we get it, Dr. Phil. If it were up to you, you'd have us all fixed in a week," Minho says. "But you're just as crazy as the rest of us."

    Thomas doesn't look nearly as annoyed as I think he'll be. "Yeah, I could, and I am, but it's frustrating seeing that f—shucking idiot not do his job."

    I want to point out that it feels like he's progressed more with me in two sessions than any therapist has before, but I stay silent. Thomas would probably get upset if I did, and that's not something I want.

    There's something about Thomas that makes me want to impress him. Maybe it's the effortless confidence he exudes, despite everything he's got going on in his brain. It's the same feeling that I used to get from Alby, and the thought actually scares me.

    "I'm trying to actually cooperate in therapy this time," I say. "Not sure if it'll work, but it can't hurt, can it?"

    "It can't," Thomas says, before leaning forward and speaking lowly into my ear. The warmth of his breath hits my neck as the words come out, the feeling making me struggle to actually hear his words. "Let's talk later. Your room, after lunch?"

    The word is not 'uncomfortable'. Because that's not how I feel at all. I'm not exactly comfortable, but I'm not feeling badly. My chest feels constricted and my head feels cloudy and my stomach is in a knot, but it's not in the normal way. It's completely different from that, yet somehow familiar. Once again, it hits me. _Alby_.

    "Sure," I say quietly, trying to mask any out of place feelings.

    Thomas pulls back and nods, a smile playing on his features. It suddenly occurs to me to wonder what his smile was like when he was younger, before he had any of these problems—if he ever didn't in the first place. It'd probably be brighter, more genuine on a rounder faced and happier child. His eyes would shine and his cheeks would be pink and full.

    But not now. If that kid ever existed, all that's left of him is a thin, hollow ghost. Maybe that's what my parents see when they look at _me_.

    "Great," he says. I've got no clue what we're even going to talk about, but I agreed anyway. All I can do is wait.

    The rest of them continue to talk, but I'm mentally checked out, aside from the occasional brush of Thomas' arm against mine or a glance in my direction that I'm hyper aware of. After an hour, they all go to their class, saying that they'll see me later.

    As for me, I go back to my room alone, sitting on my bed and writing in my journal about how Thomas has come back.

 

  
The group came back an hour and fifty five minutes later—but who was counting?—for medication time, and were all caught up in their own conversations for me to engage in much. But, now, it's group time, and this is the first session Thomas has joined in a few days.

    Of course, Dr. Paige says something about it. "It's good to see you back, Thomas." Thomas, sitting two chairs away from me with only Chuck between, looks up at her through hooded eyes. We all seem to collectively hold our breaths as we wait for him to reply, but he never does. "Who would like to start?"

    It goes counterclockwise around the group, Thomas passing over his turn with a curt "no thank you," and me politely declining my turn to a quick disapproving look from Dr. Paige. If anyone deserves the annoying nickname like Dr. Janson has, it's her.

    At the end, instead of her usual dismissal, she stays put.

    "As you all know, we recently lost Winston Flores," Dr. Paige starts. The air automatically thickens, and I can feel half of the rooms eyes go to Thomas.

    "He was my brother," Zart, who's also in our group, chimes in.

    Dr. Paige ignores him. "The staff has talked it over with his family, and there's been a mutual agreement to hold a memorial for him. Anyone with medical clearance can attend, and if you'd like to go, Dr. Janson will be here tomorrow to collect names. It's being held in two days."

    Am I medically cleared? Would he even want me there? Questions dance around my mind as the tension gets stronger.

    "Does anyone have any questions?" Dr. Paige asks.

    Silence.


	22. twenty two

The news about Winston's memorial is shared at lunch, and there are a lot of mixed reactions. But, the overall consensus is that everyone is going.

"It's shucked up to throw a memorial for someone when you're the reason they're gone in the first place," Chuck says solemnly, looking down at the table.

"I swear, I hate them. Winston would hate this, too," Minho says. "But I have to go for him. Maybe I can show them that we won't stand for what they did." 

    "If they can treat us like people for ten minutes," Jeff says quietly, his eyes darting to the nurses posted around the room. 

    " _I_ killed him," Zart blurts out. Nobody pays attention but me.

"His family approved, I think it's up to them now," Frypan says. Ever the peacemaker.

"His family wasn't here, they don't know," Minho says. "Thomas, you've been surprisingly quiet."

Thomas is seated at the other side of the table from me and about two people to the right. He looks up from his food now, switching his gaze to Minho. 

"I'm going," he says. "And if they've got anything to do with this, the toxicology reports will tell us."

    "What happened to the screaming and yelling?" Minho asks, his tone an odd mixture of anger and sarcasm.

    "You know what that got me," Thomas says. "We'll win in the end."

    Minho rolls his eyes, but I don't miss the worry that flashes behind them.

 

 

 

After the events of group and lunch, I walk back to my room alone. Thomas has most likely forgotten about our plan, due to all of the commotion, so I don't bother waiting for him. 

But once I'm almost to the door, I hear a voice.

"Newt, you took off." I turn to see Thomas walking up to me. His voice almost makes me jump, but I hold it together. "I tried to run after you, but the nurses did _not_ like that."

_Six_. I smile. "Don't get in trouble on my account, Tommy."

He grins. "No promises."

We make our way into my room while I try to turn my brain off, but unluckily for me, that's entirely impossible. As long as I've got my tens and my anxiety, my brain will never catch a break. 

I make it to my bed on four, but walk in place for a moment to make it to eight before I sit down, tapping my feet twice and snapping my fingers. Thomas opts for Chuck's bed, hopping onto it and facing me, probably waiting for me to finish my ten.

"Well, get on with it, then," I say, attempting to sound confident. "What'd you wanna talk about?"

"Pushy, are we?" Thomas asks, before getting to my question. "You, actually."

"Me?" I ask. "What about me?"

"Why you're here, _and_ you in general. I'm intrigued," Thomas says.

    I open my mouth, then close it. Can I keep up the confidence? "Well, I'm intrigued about you, too." 

    My heart leaps into my throat as he smirks. "Are you?"

    "I barely know you, yet I keep telling you things. I’ve earned the right to ask questions," I say. Untrue? No. Embarrassing to say out loud? Yes. 

    "Alright, fair enough. We'll trade answers," Thomas says. My eyes widen.

    "Really?" I ask, knowing how lame it sounds.

    "Really," Thomas says. "Can I go first?" 

    I want to ask whether he meant go first asking or go first answering, but I decide not to. I'll probably find out now, anyway. "Sure." 

    "Okay, what you said about your father not understanding you, what did you mean?" Thomas asks. 

"That's an odd question," I say. "You sound like Rat Man."

Thomas laughs. "You agreed, answers for answers." 

"Fine. He doesn't make an effort to understand me. We used to get along nicely, but since I started with all this, he's disconnected from me," I say.

"It started with your tens? Are you sure? What was your relationship like before it?" Thomas asks, leaning forward.

"I don't recall agreeing to follow up questions," I say. Thomas looks at me with pleading eyes, so I sigh and cave. "We used to do normal father and son things. Like going to games and stuff like that."

    "Did you stop wanting to go to them? Or did he not want you to?" Thomas asks.

    "A little bit of both, I s'pose," I say. "I lost interest in sports, but it wasn't just that, we stopped doing _anything_."

    "Interesting," Thomas says. "Okay, ask me something.” 

    I've had nothing but questions about this boy, but now that I have the opportunity to ask, I can barely think. Finally, something comes to me.

    "Do you have a family?" I ask. 

    "I do," Thomas says simply.

    "I think the elaboration was implied," I say.

    "I've got a mother and a sister," Thomas says. I'm not sure how I notice, but I can swear I see the light in his eyes flicker. The strain in his voice helps my observation, and it makes me decide to drop it. 

    "Okay," I say. "Your turn."

    "Ever date anyone?" Thomas asks.

I can feel my face start burning in an instant, avoiding Thomas' gaze now. The intense embarrassment causes my eyes to water, my heart going at hummingbird speed. It's not a weird question, it's not a bad question, so why am I so tripped up?

I suddenly realize that I've yet to answer. "No, no I haven't."

"Why is that?" Thomas asks.

'Isn't this personal?', I want to ask. 'Why is that _your_ business?'

"I dunno, I was never that interested in anyone, I guess," I say.

"Nobody ever caught your eye? I feel like they'd be all over you," Thomas says.

"Excuse me?" The words come out before I can stop them.

" _You_. The accent, the looks, everything. I figured you'd have been popular," Thomas says.

My eyes are still tearing and my face is still red as I reach up and run a hand through my hair to distract myself. "Not really—shouldn't I be asking _you_ something?"

"Go ahead." I finally look up to see Thomas with his eyes trained directly on me, like nothing will ever take them away. 

"Are you asking questions to be friendly, or to figure out what's wrong with me?" I ask, not holding back so that hopefully he gets as shaken as I am. 

"Both," Thomas answers. "I like you. You're different. So, yes, I am being friendly. But you've also got something special going on up here," he says, tapping his forehead, "and I'd like to help figure it out."

The honesty of his answer stuns me. For everything he may or may not be, one thing's for sure; he's not predictable.

"I think you're barking up the wrong tree, mate," I say. 

Thomas furrows his eyebrows, tilting his head. "In what way?"

"I told you, there's nothing to figure out. I'm playing along in therapy, but I still don't believe that there's anything there. I want to get better, but I don't think talking about my feelings is the way," I say.

Thomas' eyes widen, the smile reappearing. "Oh. That. Well, I'm not so sure."

_Oh_? What'd he think I meant? "Well, _I'm_ sure."

"My turn to ask. Do you have any friends back at home?" Thomas says, changing the subject. 

"Used to. Not so much anymore," I say.

"What were they like?" Thomas asks.

"Well, there were a few. Jack, Jorge, Clint... A-Alby," I say, hating myself for stuttering Alby's name. "Oh, and Teresa. Sorta."

"Sorta?" Thomas asks. 

"I've known her since we were born, basically. We used to be friends, but we go to different high schools now and kinda grew apart," I say. "The whole thing was set up by my mother, anyway."

    "Your mom made you guys hang out?" Thomas asks. 

    "I guess. Our parents are friends, so I think they wanted us to get married or something," I say.

"But you never liked her that way," Thomas says, as more of a statement than a question. 

"No, I didn't," I say. Something in Thomas' expression shifts, making me feel more nervous than I had before. "What?" 

"I didn't say anything," Thomas says, his tone completely unreadable. 

"Fine... What about _you_ , then?" I ask.

"What about me?" Thomas asks. 

I didn't want to actually say the words. "Did _you_ date anyone?"

Thomas smiles widely. "I did."

For some reason, the reply throws me off again. I didn't think this far. "Alright."

"Want elaboration?" Thomas asks. 

"Up to you," I say, hoping it comes off as nonchalant as I tried to make it.

"I had two girlfriends," Thomas says, his gaze on his hands while he speaks. He then switches it back to me. "And one boyfriend."

I haven't the faintest idea why my heart stops. Maybe it's the way he said it, his voice dripping with something I don't understand. Or maybe it's his piercing eye contact. It could be anything. Nevertheless, it does. If I had to guess how long it takes me to respond, I'd say anywhere from ten seconds to ten years.

"Before or after your symptoms?" I ask, my voice cracking. The only possible response to that was a question. 

"Both," Thomas says. "Depends on the symptoms."

"What _are_ your symptoms?" I ask.

Thomas has been wearing a smirk since he revealed the information about his boyfriend that doesn't waver now. "It's my turn to ask, if I'm not mistaken."

"You're not," I say reluctantly.

"Good. Why'd you stutter over the name Alby? Not a good friend?" Thomas asks.

He just has to notice _everything_ , doesn't he? "No, he was actually my best friend." 

"What happened?" Thomas asks.

I haven’t got a good answer. Part of it, I can barely remember. Some parts, I remember too well. "It's complicated."

"Try me," Thomas says.

"After the OCD started, I stopped being friends with them," I say. 

"Did they want you to stop?" Thomas asks. 

I consider this. "I don't—I mean, they never—"

"Is it the same story with Alby? Or was it more complicated than that?" Thomas asks.

"It's a long story," I say, Thomas apparently not hearing me and talking over my words. 

"If you were best friends, why would OCD drive you apart?"

" _Jesus_ , Thomas," I say exasperatedly. _That_ gets his attention. "We were friends, now we're not, isn't that enough?"

Thomas looks stunned, his face dropping. I want to apologize for raising my voice, but I can't find the words. Besides, he _did_ push it. 

After a moment, he speaks. "I'm sorry... I went too far."

"It's fine," I say quietly, looking down at my hands in my lap.

"No, it's not," Thomas says. I look back to him to see that he looks way more distressed than just a moment ago, his hands shaky. "God, I hate myself. I'm sorry."

"Tommy, it's really okay," I say, leaning forward.

"I..." Thomas trails off, looking at my bed. His breaths become heavier, focusing on one spot on the headboard.

My instincts kick in, and I know what I have to do. He did the same for me, now it's my turn. 

I get up, taking three steps before I'm sitting on Chuck's bed next to Thomas. He only seems vaguely aware of it as I absentmindedly tap my feet seven times on the ground.

"Hey, hey, it’s alright," I say lightly, trying to engage Thomas. It's a little scary considering I still don't know him that well yet, he could snap at any moment. But I owe it to him, and something tells me that he won’t.

I snap my fingers quickly and quietly, holding my hand against the bed to try to muffle the noise. That hand then lands on the knee of a still very distraught looking Thomas.

"Tommy? You’re here with me, you’re safe.”

Finally, Thomas looks down at my hand—that I'm having second thoughts about the placement of—and then at me. His eyes search my face, and then like a switch, I see recognition wash over him. 

"Newt," he breathes out quietly. "Thank you... I—"

"Don't you _dare_ say you're sorry," I let out a nervous laugh, trying to ease the tension. Thomas shakes his head. 

"You deserve a few answers," Thomas says, his voice still wavering a bit. "You asked what my symptoms are, right?"

"Only if you wanted to tell me," I say, as if it's not all I've wondered for over a week now. 

"Here's one of them," Thomas says. "I'm sure you've figured it out by now, but I hallucinate." 

"I’ve, uh, gathered that much," I say.

"Minho hallucinates too, like I told you, but it's different. His were caused by drugs and alcohol," Thomas says. 

"What're _yours_ caused by?" I ask.

Thomas puts his hand over mine on his knee, almost making me yank it away since I've forgotten it was even there. But I don't move. 

He gives me a sad smile. "Wouldn't we all like to know?" 

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ that I'm truly one of a kind," Thomas says. "We've got a few disorders and diseases in mind, but I don't actually have a formal diagnosis."

"How can that be possible?" I ask.

"Beats me," Thomas says. "I've been studying everything related to the brain for _years_ trying to figure it out, since apparently these actual doctors can't do it themselves."

An abundance of things suddenly make sense. Thomas' anger towards the doctors here and saying they can't do their jobs, his knowledge of everyone else's problems, the way he thinks that he's a lost cause. All of it clicks. 

"How many doctors have you been to?" I ask. 

"Countless," he says. "For as long as I remember, it's been doctor after doctor. They all say the same thing."

"What?" 

"They've never seen anything like it, I don't completely fit any description, and I most likely have a mix of things they can't figure out," Thomas says.

I'm stunned. "How could they just not know?" 

"There's been a few ideas, a few times we've gotten close to something exact. But everyone thinks it's something different," Thomas says.

    I cannot imagine not knowing what I even _have_. Having to go through all these doctors and treatments and medications, all shots in the dark.

    "Do you think it might be something they haven't heard of?" I ask.

    "I've thought about that. But they all say that I'm still under eighteen and my brain isn't done developing," Thomas says. "There's only two outcomes I can think of."

    "What are they?" I ask.

    "Either they do a bunch of tests on me and eventually find that it's something with no cure. Or they give up completely," he says, "and I die in here." 

    "Thomas," I say, searching for words. "That's-that's not going to happen."

    "Isn't it? They won't let me out while I can't function in the real world, but they've got nothing helping me here," Thomas says.

    "You said hallucinating is only one of your symptoms, yeah?" I ask. "Are they helping you with any of the others?"

    "The ones they _are_ helping with are the more standard ones, throw some medication at me and call it a day," Thomas says. " _I_ could do that."

    "Have you looked into maybe hav—" I cut myself off. The word that's been on my mind since I figured out he has hallucinations. But of course he's looked into it, how couldn't he? That's the first thing you do. 

    "I have," Thomas answers, surprising me. He must see my expression, because he continues. "Schizophrenia, right? That's what you were gonna ask?"

    He doesn't say it with any sort of angry or upset tone, but I still flinch at the word. "Yeah, actually."

    "I've looked into it, but I don't fit the description," Thomas says. "Not for proper schizophrenia, anyway."

    "What does that mean?" I ask.

    "There's something else that's one of the closest things I've found," Thomas says. "It's called schizoaffective disorder."

    "Have you told the doctors?" I ask. 

    "I've tried, but they say my type of hallucination isn't the exact fit for it," Thomas says. "Besides, there's no point. There's no cure for that."

    "You're not a lost cause, Tommy," I say, still extremely aware of my hand on him. "You'll get better. You'll get out."

    "Thanks, Newt. Really. But I've long since given up on them letting me out. They won't even try to treat me until my brain is fully developed," Thomas says. 

    "They'll figure it out, okay?" I say. True or not, his hopelessness is making me anxious, my chest starting to hurt. "You'll figure it out."

    Thomas nods, then takes his hand off of mine before laying on his back, making me take my hand away as well. It catches me off guard, how casually he does it. He gazes up at me, and in a moment of pure courage, I decide to push away my thoughts.

    I carefully lay down next to him, my head landing an inch or so above his due to the slight height difference. Both of our legs are hanging over the side of the bed, but it's comfortable for some reason anyway. My hands rest on my stomach and because of the closeness of our faces, I stare at the ceiling.

    "You will too," Thomas says softly. Apparently he doesn’t mind closeness, because I feel him turn his head to look at me as he speaks, making me instinctually look at him.

    Our shoulders are pressed together, so when we meet each other’s gazes, our noses are almost touching. I take the opportunity to really look at him again. He looks sicker than before, that’s been established, but there’s something in his eyes now that I can’t place.

Maybe I notice that because he smiles at me again, and even though it’s small, it reaches his eyes this time. It’s a good look on him. 

I find myself smiling back at him before we simultaneously look back at the ceiling.

 

 

 

Somehow, we fell asleep like that. I didn’t even realize until I woke up three hours later to Chuck telling Thomas they need to go to their class. I was immediately embarrassed, but Thomas didn’t show any hint of feeling the same as he groaned about getting up and apologized to me for Chuck.

Dinner was normal, I didn’t get much time to talk to Thomas, but he didn’t seem out of sorts there either. Maybe I’m the only one who’s thinking too much about it.

That’s probably why I’m writing in my journal right now about our conversation while Chuck plays one of his games before it’s time for lights out. I feel like a proper teenager writing in a diary, and as ridiculous as it sounds, it’s kinda fun.

There’s something about him. Something. I know now that it’s different than the friendship I had with Alby. The one major difference being that Thomas... Thomas didn’t flinch. He doesn’t make me feel weird or bad. He never has.

None of the things I’m thinking make sense to me. Maybe they’d make sense to Dr. Janson. There’s only one thing I can think of that’d explain my ongoing fascination; I haven’t had a friend in so long that now that I’ve got one, he’s all I focus on.

Is it possible, when you’ve got OCD, to sometimes be obsessed with a person?


	23. twenty three

I've got a thing with washing my hands.

It's not like I'm a total germaphobe or anything. Do I like to tidy and dust my room and sanitize things sometimes? Yes, but I don't go crazy with it. It's not like my world will end if everything isn't clean. Well, aside from my eating utensils, cups and plates, _those_ need to be clean. But I'm getting off track.

    The hand washing started more recently, but it's been a main topic of worry in my household. Mostly since I'm in the bathroom for so long.

    It started with ten seconds of washing my hands. But one time before school let out, I'd had an extremely bad day and wound up at the sink in the bathroom of the science wing washing my hands for ten minutes with hot water. They were dry and red and painful after that, but it became a habit when I was frustrated.

    The frustration started occurring a lot more often than it should have. More often than not. And like everything else, it became a habit.

    That's why I'm standing in front of the mirror now, on minute eight of washing my hands with the nurses staring at me. I'm pretty sure that they're used to it by now, but it's unnerving all the same.

    As tiring as it is to stand and scrub at my hands for ten minutes, I don't want it to end. Because when it ends, I'll have to start heading down for my family therapy session, and I'm terrified.

When I eventually finish washing my hands, trying to ignore how tired my legs are from standing and my arms are from doing so much work, I dry off and walk out.

My day so far has been nice, but nerve wracking. Everyone's been giving me advice and pep talks about family therapy. Group was alright, too. I got my clearance to go to Winston's memorial, and I even spoke when it was my turn, saying I was nervous for today.

    It's three o'clock now, judging by the barred off clock on the wall, so my parents should be arriving soon. I _do_ have fifteen minutes to spare, so before going by Dr. Janson's office—our designated meeting point—I stop by the lounge room.

    I'm on step three when I poke my head in, seeing everyone that's not in Group B sitting and talking. When I take a fourth step, Jeff looks up.

"Isn't your family therapy now?" he asks.

    Maybe I've talked about it a little _too_ much. "Yeah, five minutes or so," I say.

"Avoid fighting and you'll be okay," Thomas says, adding a small smile at the end. For some reason, it actually helps, even though I've heard the same thing all day.

"I've never thought about my relationship with my father this much," I say. "We haven't even spoken enough to _have_ fights. Well, not until today."

"We'll be here for you when you're done," Chuck says encouragingly.

"No we won't," Zart says.

"He's actually not lying," Thomas says sadly. "We'll be in a class. Which, by the way, you should join, Newt."

I haven't thought about classes, really. I didn't think I'd be here long enough for them to even matter. But at this rate, I may have to.

Swallowing my disappointment that I'll have no friends to comfort me, I respond. "Maybe."

"More time with me," Thomas says, adding a wink at the end that makes me fight a humiliating blush from rising on my cheeks. Why? _Why_?

"Don't flatter yourself, Tommy. Not sure you're worth doing work," I say, finally finding my voice. It's funny, how Thomas can bring out the old sarcastic humor I used to have with my friends.

"First of all, I'm hurt. Second, we don't actually do work. They treat us like we're all in the first grade. So yes, it's patronizing, but it looks good on our files," Thomas says, the mock sadness in his first sentence almost making me laugh.

    "I'll think about it," I say, glancing at the clock in the room and taking a deep breath. "Guess I'll be off, then." 

"Good luck," Frypan says with a smile, looking up from the TV now. Everyone follows suit, wishing me luck. All except Thomas, who stands up.

"I'll walk you," he says, not even waiting for me to accept or reject his offer before he makes his way across the room. Once he's in front of me, I shift awkwardly on my feet.

"Thanks," I say lamely. He nods.

"My pleasure," Thomas says, the corner of his mouth twisting up into a half smile.

The act strangely warms my heart. It's been a while since someone's cared this much.

We set off down the hall towards Janson's room, me starting my count from where I left off. So when I stop, Thomas seems surprised.

"I, um, left off at four before," I say, snapping my fingers.

"Ah, of course," Thomas says, his tone holding no hint of impatience. 

When we start walking again, I put my mind on autopilot and speak. "I appreciate it, by the way."

"Appreciate what?" Thomas asks. Without looking at him, I know he's looking at me.

We stop at the exact same time before I answer.

"That," I say, gesturing my hand towards him as I snap. "Counting with me and stuff, it's nice."

Thomas gives me a sincere look. "I like to help if I can. Especially since the, uh... incident the day we met."

We continue walking. "Nobody's ever done that before, actually."

"Really?" Thomas asks. "None of your friends?"

Somehow, the sore subject doesn't bother me so much with the way he asks the question.

"Well, I just... I always told them not to," I say, both of us stopping again.

"Why?" Thomas asks.

I don't answer until we're walking.

"I didn't want to hold them back, I guess. And it's kind of embarrassing," I say truthfully, once again not meeting Thomas' gaze.

"Why do you let _me_ , then?" Thomas asks.

Luckily, we've arrived in front of Janson's office, landing on nine. I take another step, then start snapping.

    "We're, um, here," I say, looking at the door.

    "I see," Thomas says.

    "Thanks again," I say. I partially want him to leave, but I also don't want to be alone when my parents arrive.

    "Don't worry about it," Thomas says. "What time are they supposed to be here?"

    "Any second now." Why isn't he taking the out I gave him?

    "Well, the later the better. But it'll be fine, I promise," Thomas says.

    "You don't have to wait," I say. I'm an idiot. "If you don't want to."

    "Don't be silly, I want to meet the people that made that handsome face of yours," Thomas says with a smirk.

    Once again, why do the words almost make me flinch? He's said so many things along these lines, is he just joking around? He could do this with everyone, I wouldn't know. Judging by what he told me, he's bisexual, so could he actually _mean_ what he's saying? And why does it make me feel so...

    I push the thought away. "Hope they don't disappoint."

    Before Thomas can respond, someone joins us outside the door.

    "Newton, your parents are on their way in," Dr. Janson addresses me, then turns to Thomas. "Thomas," he says, nodding a greeting.

    "How are _you_ today?" Thomas says, his voice over enthusiastic and dripping with sarcasm.

    Janson gives him a fake smile, the insincerity obvious. "I'm doing well, Thomas. Thank you. I see you and Newton get along well."

    "Oh, very," Thomas nods. "I see _you_ thought that family therapy was necessary, care to elaborate? I'd love to hear your thoughts."

    "You know that I'm not at liberty to discuss this," Janson says, but he doesn't seem at all shocked to hear Thomas ask.

    "C'mon, the three of us could get some real work done! He could be out of here by tomorrow," Thomas says. Has he forgotten that I'm right here?

    "It's good to hear that you're concerned, but we can handle it," Janson says. It makes me wonder how many conversations they’ve had just like this.

    "Just promise to clue him in when you've managed to piece some things together," Thomas says, his tone holding more anger than before.

    Clue me in? What's that supposed to mean? I look at Thomas, but his eyes are fixated on Janson.

    "I think that's enough, Thomas," Janson says.

    "You're the expert," Thomas shoots back.

    "Newt?"

    I turn my head to see my mother walking quickly towards me, my father trailing behind with the nurse that's escorting them. The sight of her fills me with unexpected emotion. I haven't had time to think about it much, but I really have missed her.

    "Hi," I say, trying to fight back tears as she makes it to me, wrapping me in a tight hug.

    I hug back, momentarily forgetting the whole situation. It's the same feeling I used to get in elementary school, when my parents would come visit for some event and everything just felt _different_.

    When we eventually pull away, Janson's voice snaps me back to reality.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Janson, Newt's psychologist here," he says, reaching a hand out.

My mother takes it, shaking it quickly. "It's nice to meet you."

It doesn't surprise me when my father walks right around me to Janson, shaking his hand as well. If he won't bother with a greeting, neither will I.

"Hi," Thomas speaks up suddenly, startling me. I'd almost forgotten he was standing there. "I'm Thomas, Newt's friend."

He smiles warmly and holds his hand out to my mom, who smiles from him to me and back again before shaking it.

"I'm glad to see you've met people," Mom says to me. "How old are you, Thomas?"

    "I'm seventeen," he says.

    "What're you in here for, then?" My dad miraculously decides to join the conversation in the worst possible way.

    "A few things. Nice to meet you, sir," Thomas says, nodding to my father. He goes to reach his hand out, but stops himself when my father gives him a look.

    That makes my blood boil.

    "Aside from Chuck, Thomas has been my closest friend here," I say, my tone warning and very much directed at my dad. "He's a good person. He listens."

    "Thank you," Thomas says, shooting me a small smile as if to tell me that it's okay. But it's not okay. Not at all. He turns back to my parents now. "You've raised a great kid."

    "That's very sweet of you," my mother says quickly, clearly trying to cover for my father's behavior.

    "I'll leave you guys to it, then," Thomas says. "I'll see you later, Newt."

    "Bye, Tommy," I say, giving him a forced smile for the benefit of my dad. If Thomas knows what I'm doing, he doesn't show it, giving me an even brighter smile before starting the walk down the hall.

    "Shall we?" Janson asks.

    We all pile into his office, where a few chairs have been placed in a circle. If I wasn't so anxious, I'd laugh at how cliché the setup is.

    I get to my chair on three, taking two extra steps to sit down and tapping my feet on the ground five times while everyone else gets settled. But right now, I can't focus on them. I have to focus on my tens. Always my tens.

    Dr. Janson says something that I don't hear as I snap my fingers, counting each number loudly in my head. I only realize that I'm being spoken to when a hand is suddenly on my leg.

    "Newt, Dr. Janson asked you something," my mother says soothingly. Unfortunately, my anger towards my father can't exactly be soothed at the moment.

    "I asked if you'd like to start by telling or asking your parents about something you've learned so far while being here," Janson says.

    Bad idea.

    "I _have_ got a question, actually," I start, my tone clear. It's not a cheery one.

    I'm about to speak again when Thomas' words come to mind. _Avoid fighting and you'll be okay_. This would start a fight for sure. Do I really want that in my first _minute_ of family therapy?

    "Continue," Janson says expectantly.

    "I..." All of the bravery I felt just a moment ago has vanished, and I have nothing to say. If Thomas was here, he would have exploded at him. Why can't _I_ do that?

    "Maybe you should start with a bit of what we talked about the other day," Janson says.

How do I even bring this sort of thing up? "Alright, well, Dad," I start. It suddenly hits me how I can get through this. Channel my anger, but don't yell. "We haven't been close for the past few years, have we?"

He seems shocked by my bluntness, but recovers quickly. "What do you mean?"

"We don't talk, and though I'll admit that I don't exactly understand myself, you don't even make an effort to get me," I say. With every word, I keep replaying his interaction with Thomas over in my head, trying to remember why I'm so upset. If I didn't, I'd just feel guilty. But still, I try to keep my tone away from being accusatory.

"Of course we talk, what're you on about? I get you perfectly fine," Dad says, his accent thickening the way it always does when he gets defensive.

"Really? Because ever since my OCD got bad, you haven't offered to spend any time with me," I say, my voice cracking a bit at the end. I can feel tears welling in my eyes, and I will them to go away. There's no way I can stand up to my father while I'm crying.

"What does this have to do with your OCD? Are you saying you're crazy because I haven't spent enough time with you?" my father says.

"Lawrence, stop it," my mother says sharply.

Finally, the tears spill over.

"I never said that," I say in a quieter voice, looking at Janson. He doesn't seem keen on helping any time soon.

"Then why are we talking about it?" my father asks.

" _Lawrence_ ," my mother threatens.

"Because of _this_ , Dad!" I say, choking back my tears. "You see me as a problem, that's it. That's probably the only thing we've got in common."

"Newt," my mother says, rubbing my leg. I can tell by her voice that she's crying too. "Don't ever say that. He loves you. _We_ love you, and you're _not_ a problem."

My mom's words make a bit of that guilt come back, my expression softening. I didn't mean to pull her into this. "I'm sorry," I say shakily, looking at her now. "I didn't mean you."

"We both love you so much," she says. I was right, she's crying as much as I am. It makes me feel horrible, but less humiliated.

"Thank you, Mom," I say before turning back to my father. "But, Dad, we can't even have a _conversation_ without Mom. How is that normal?"

His face somehow drops even more. And somehow, when I turn to look at her again, so does my mother's.

"What?" I ask. They look at each other, and my anxiety heightens.

"Newt," Mom starts, switching her hand from my leg to my back. "Your father and I need to talk to you about something."

    My anxiety gets so terrible so quickly, that I think I'm going to pass out or die. Blood pumps in my ears, and my chest constricts so much that my breathing automatically becomes labored, my body feeling like it's being electrocuted.

    "Mom?" I ask desperately.

    "It's been a long time, but recently—" she cuts herself off, her eyes scanning my face. "Sweetie, are you okay?"

    "Just _tell me_ ," I rush my words.

    She looks conflicted, but continues on. "Don't feel bad, because it's mutual, okay? It's been a long time."

    Oh God.

    "And we feel like it'd be the best for all of us."

    Oh _God_.

    "Your father and I may be filing for divorce."

    I hear the words as if I'm not me. As if I'm some floating entity far away from here, listening in. I can't be me right now. This can't be right.

    "Wh-why? Why?" I ask, looking at a spot on the wall. I'm not actually asking her. I'm not asking anyone. I'm not me.

    "After you left—"

    "So it's _my_ fault," I say, once again not to her. This time, it was to myself.

    "No, Newt, not at all," she says. All I hear are her tears.

    One thing is for sure; I can't stay in here any longer. My mind has already left, now the rest of me has to. I get up wordlessly, the calls after me blurring into a background of static.

    _One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

_Five._

    The numbers scream in my head as I walk out. When the sound of vague footsteps hit my ear, I know what I have to do.

    _Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten_. I run, counting each time I hit ten. That's the only thing that matters right now.

    My body keeps going until I reach my bed, stepping three times before getting on and letting out a sob. I still haven't met up with my mind. That's somewhere a long way from here. So for now, this person—that definitely is _not_ me—cries into his blanket and snaps his fingers seventy times.

Despite many attempts by Chuck and Thomas, I don’t talk to anyone for the rest of the day.


	24. twenty four

Today is Winston's memorial, which means we're all allowed out.

It's not until two o'clock, though, and right now we're eating breakfast. I haven't spoken a word or touched my food—which Frypan severely warns against—instead opting to stare at the table and shake my leg in tens.

I'm vaguely aware of Thomas sitting across from me, looking at me worriedly. He knows what happened yesterday. Everyone does. But I didn't tell them.

No, they know because this morning, before I was allowed to go to breakfast, they made me go see Dr. Janson to talk about what happened. He suggested another family therapy session, to which I strongly disagreed. He set it up anyway.

I thought for sure that he'd take away my pass to go to the memorial today, but he said it might do me good to go outside. The words sounded wildly inconsiderate to Winston, but I didn't say anything.

They all heard when Janson walked me to lunch. It was a terrible walk, and every time I stopped, he observed me like a lab rat. I almost burst into tears.

When we got to the table, everyone looked up and he left me with the parting words, "we can put you in the children of divorce support group."

Most of the group attempted to give me comforting words, but I didn't hear any of it. Their conversations right _now_ are nothing but a distant hum to me. I can only hear my tens.

I'm numb. I'm numb everywhere but my chest, that seems to be radiating pain somehow, making me feel inexplicably cold. There's nothing I want to do right now. I don't want to move, or eat, or think.

A tapping on the table in front of me snaps me out of my trance, but I don't want to look up. I already know who it is. I already know what he'll say.

"Newt, please. You don't have to talk about it now. But if you don't eat, they'll take away privileges," Thomas says. Okay, maybe I _didn't_ know what he'd say.

My voice is hoarse and quiet when I speak. "I'm not hungry."

"I know. I've been there, okay? But you have to. I learned that the hard way," Thomas says.

I look up at him now. "Why should I? What can they possibly do to me?" What could be worse than this?

Thomas' eyes hold nothing but sympathy. It almost makes me feel bad for my tone, but I can't handle anymore guilt. I'm already the reason my parents aren't together anymore.

"Newt," he says more quietly, leaning forward, "you know that I'm right. I know that right now you're feeling self destructive, but getting angry at me or not eating isn't going to help anything."

I have nothing to say in response.

I force myself to eat what's on my plate, not making eye contact with Thomas again.

 

 

 

We're allowed to put on normal clothes today. So far, it's been things they deemed 'safe’; sneakers without laces, plain pants, t-shirts and long sleeved shirts.

    One of the things I've learned in my time here is that _everything_ is unsafe. Normal shampoos? Unsafe. Sweatpants and hoodies? Unsafe. Dental floss? Unsafe. Anything in an aerosol can? Unsafe. Access to lightbulbs? Unheard of.

    I always think about why certain things have been banned from our use. Some of them don't make any sense to me. But sometimes I'll figure one out, and it'll occur to me that maybe they're putting ideas into some people's heads.

    I'm thinking about the sneaker rule as I get dressed. Lunch has ended and those of our group who are going have been excused from group therapy today, since it conflicts with the memorial. I'm thankful for that.

    Fishing through my drawers, I find a black sweater and black jeans. Changing is always a challenge for me, the weird amounts of stepping involved sometimes getting overwhelming, but today it's a welcome distraction.

    I only have my pants on when theres a knock at the already slightly open—due to yet another rule—door.

    "Getting changed," I mumble, hopefully loud enough for whoever it is to hear. I'm not facing the door, but I know that they can see me. There's a glass window on it along with it being opened, so it wouldn't exactly be difficult. The thought makes me uncomfortable beyond belief.

    "Please let me in." It's Thomas, and his voice sounds rushed and desperate. " _Please_."

    I hesitate, holding my sweater in my hand. "Fine."

    The door swings open, making me quickly turn. I watch Thomas fix the door to be in it's former state, then rush over to the wall of Chuck's side, leaning up against it. He looks rattled, breathing heavily and worry plastered on his face. He's wearing all black too, a black t-shirt and black jeans that both look a size too big.

    It's only when he looks at me again that I remember I'm standing shirtless. I quickly scramble to put my shirt on, my cheeks turning pink. It's strange. I haven't had a problem changing with Chuck in the room, but for some reason, I feel more exposed now.

    "What's going on?" I ask, trying to distract from myself.

    "Someone... _unexpected_ is attending the memorial," Thomas says. Is he looking at me funny, or am I overthinking things?

    "Who?" I ask.

    Thomas quickly glances at the door, then back at me. "Gally."

    My eyes widen. "I thought he wasn't allowed—"

    "Yeah, well, apparently he's been doing alright, because he's out there right now," Thomas says.

    "Did he see you?" I ask.

    "No, not yet," Thomas says.

    "If he's doing well, then maybe he wouldn't say anything to you," I say.

    "Not a chance. You were there the last time, you saw," Thomas says.

    "What's the plan, then?" I ask. It comes out more bitter than intended. "Hide in here? Not go?"

    Thomas doesn't look offended in the slightest. "I'm not sure yet, I don't know, I—" he stops himself, taking a deep breath. "The hallucinations, they always get worse with him around."

    "Worse?" I ask.

    "More... realistic. Sometimes I know exactly what's happening, but sometimes..." he trails off. "I hate being around him, but not nearly as much as he hates being around me."

A question I haven't asked yet pops up in my mind. I've been curious, but I was afraid of asking until now. Right now, I don't care about what he thinks is weird of me. I just don't care.

"When you yelled at Dr. Paige in group, what was happening?" I ask, partially carefully but also a bit deadpan. "Was it a hallucination? And where were you for nearly a week?"

Thomas frowns, almost looking confused at the question. I'm a moment away from changing the topic before his expression shifts, and his delivery is more nonchalant than annoyed or uncomfortable. "Sort of. But not really. I knew what I was doing."

"That hardly answers my questions," I say, resulting in a small smirk from Thomas.

"Fine. I was in solitary for a night, then I was in my room for the rest of the time," Thomas says. "There's a nurse over in solitary that I like. We talked, it was nice."

"You looked bloody awful when you came back," I say, crossing my arms. In my head, I hear almost a dinging noise reminding me that I'm on step five.

"How sweet of you to say," Thomas says sarcastically. "I tend to look less pretty after a week alone."

_Less pretty_. Would I describe Thomas as _pretty_? I push the thought away. "I was..." I trail off, trying to find a better word. But when I discover that there isn't one, I continue anyway. "I was worried. Thought maybe you were ill, or something."

"Ill?" Thomas asks, raising his eyebrows. "Always."

I scoff. "You know what I meant."

"It's nice that you worried," Thomas says, his tone holding a hint of teasing that I don't understand. "Just like _I'm_ worried now."

"About Gally?" I ask.

"No," Thomas says. "About you."

I swallow a lump in my throat. "Don't worry about me."

Thomas ignores my words. "I told you I only have my mother and my sister, right?"

    I'm silent for a second. I don't need to hear the speech, I don't need to hear that other children of divorce got over it, I don't need to hear any of it. "Yeah, you did."

    "Well, it wasn't always that way. My sister doesn't remember my father much, but _I_ do. I remember the late nights and the sick emotional and physical abuse towards my mother. I remember quietly getting up at three o'clock in the morning the day after getting hit in the head with a TV remote and leaving the house with my mother and sister to go anywhere but there," Thomas says. While he speaks, he doesn't look at me, staring off into the corner.

    "What are they like behind closed doors?" Thomas asks, meeting my eyes now. "Your parents. Abusive? Angry? Loud?"

    My blood runs cold at the thought of them. Why would he ask something like that? "Not-not loud. Not around me, anyway. And he never hit her, or me."

    Thomas lets that sit in the air for a moment before speaking again. "Different cases, then."

    My eyes are stinging. I will them not to, but they do. "I guess so." My voice cracks.

    I need to know what happened. It's all I can think about. The straw that broke the camel's back. I'd bet anything I own that it was me.

    They fought over me a lot. They'd never tell me, but I know they did. I've heard it, I've seen it in their faces, heard it in their tones.

I wanted it to guilt me into stopping my tens, stopping everything. But it didn't. A few times, out of frustration, I'd try to take more than ten steps without the intention of snapping afterwards. I could only get to twelve or thirteen before breaking down.

They always had their fair share of problems, but doesn't every couple? I used to be there for them. I'd give each of them advice, I'd even mediate. They haven't asked me to do that in years. That's probably another reason.

While in my trance, I didn't notice Thomas walking over to me. I only notice when he steps to be mere inches away.

A look of hesitation flashes over his face before he lifts his hand. When his fingers land on my face, my heart stops. I feel him wipe something away on my cheek—tears. I hadn't even realized I'd started crying.

His thumb gets rid of another, and my eyes flutter shut. This is weird. It is, isn't it? But I'm too tired to care.

When he pulls away, my eyes open again, and I feel the wetness of my eyelashes as they do.

I stare at Thomas. What can I even say? Thanks? He looks just as lost as I feel, but then he speaks. Of course, he always can.

"I met them. Not for long, but I know they care about you," Thomas says.

    And I destroyed their marriage.

    "Let's go, we'll be leaving soon, and I need you to shield me from Gally," Thomas says, adding a small smile. "You're on five, by the way."

    "How'd you know?" I ask. He wasn't even in here the last time I was walking.

    "You mumbled it once or twice," Thomas says, then nodding towards the door. "C'mon."

    Mumbling the numbers, have I always done that? I don't remember, then again, I don't recall doing it this time either. I'm only getting worse. Always getting worse.

When we walk out, there's a bunch of people lined up and several nurses walking around with clipboards, talking to the patients. It's funny to see some of these people in normal clothes, the things they'd choose to wear on a daily basis.

I spot Minho down by the front with Jeff, and he looks like one of the boys back at school that I'd avoid in the hallway. He's got on tan pants with a shirt that has a logo on it I don't quite understand. But it was the classic look of the jocks at my school, the ones that were notorious for drugs and parties and sleeping around.

Was Minho one of those kids? I suppose it doesn't matter in a mental institution. Here, we're all in the same boat.

"Newt! Thomas!" Chuck waves over to us. He's got on a black button up and jeans, and for some reason, they make him look older.

I finish my round of tens and we continue walking. For some reason, every step is draining. Every number helps but also hurts. What's the point, really? My tens—what would happen if I didn't do them? Haven't they already done the worst?

I ignore the thought, but the gnawing feeling is there. There _is_ no point, but there is. It's the _whole_ point. Everything comes down to it. Ten.

Once we reach Chuck, I don't even remember getting there. All I know is that I'm on step two.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" Thomas mumbles close to my ear.

Am I? I've been on the verge of crying all day—that is, when I'm not _actually_ crying—I feel sick, my chest hurts, I barely have the motivation to breathe or open my eyes.

"Yeah," I say.

    "Thomas, Gally is up by the front, so stay away from there," Chuck warns Thomas, nervously looking over his shoulder.

    "Thanks, buddy," Thomas says.

"I'm excited to get out of here. I've already had my panic attack—it was in therapy today—so I'm good to go," Chuck says with a smile now, giving us a thumbs up. It's good that he's still enthusiastic. "How're you feeling, Newt?"

    "Fine," I lie, Chuck obviously not believing me.

    "You can talk to me and the rest of the Normals, you know," Chuck says. He means well, I know he does. If he was anyone else, I'd snap on him.

    But, this is Chuck. "Thank you."

    A nurse walks over then, holding his clipboard and looking up with a bored expression. "Names?"

 

 

 

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight_ —wait. _Nine. Ten_. The bus driver looks at me expectantly while I snap, trying to make it as quick as possible. Finally, I stop and continue to walk down the aisle of the bus.

    Luckily for Thomas, Gally was put on the first bus. We're on the second one, and the only people I know on here are Thomas, Chuck, Zart and Aris. I assume that Thomas and Chuck will sit together, then naturally Zart and Aris will sit together. So I get to the end of the aisle anxiously, trying to find an empty seat and hoping I don't wind up next to someone _too_ scary.

    But when I get there, I see Chuck sitting with Aris. Then I see Zart sitting next to someone I don't recognize—although it looks like Zart does, considering he's chatting away.

    "That one," I hear from behind me. Thomas is one person away from me, and he points at a seat towards the back.

    I get there on nine, then use the last step to climb in, sitting down and snapping my fingers. Thomas slides in next to me, looking out at the rest of the bus.

    "It's been a while since I've been on a bus," Thomas says, patting the cushion.

    I never took the bus, really. Only on emergency days. My mother always drove me because the bus gave me too much anxiety. It was another sacrifice in a long list that she made for me.

    "Did all these people know Winston?" I ask. Two bus loads of people seems like a lot.

    "No, not even a little. He only really ever spoke to us. All these other people just want an excuse to leave," Thomas says.

    "That's horrible," I say.

    "Actually, I don't blame them," Thomas says. "Winston probably wouldn't either. A lot of these people never get passes."

    "Do you?" I ask.

    He smiles. "Not for a while. I never really have many places to go. Have you been offered one yet?"

    "No," I say. "Not yet."

    "I figured. Just depends on—" Thomas stops himself.

    "What?" I ask.

    "How long you're staying," Thomas says, looking me in the eyes. "Usually, after two weeks, they offer."

    "Oh," I say. "I don't see myself leaving any time soon."

    Thomas' face drops. "Don't say that."

    "Am I wrong?" I ask, the bitterness in my voice coming through once again. "It's not like I'm getting any better. If anything, I'm getting worse. I'm gonna wind up—" _Like you_ , I want to say. "No matter how hard I try, I'll never fix what's in my head."

    "Newt..." Thomas trails off. I'm so spaced out that when he grabs my left hand, I barely notice until he squeezes it. He only does it once, but after a moment, proceeds to squeeze it nine more times. "You'll get out of there. I promise. You don't need _fixing_ , you need help."

    The contact of our hands weakens the hollow aching in my chest, but quickens my heart rate. It can't be normal for friends to hold hands like this. Even after he's finished talking, he still holds on, and he doesn't feel keen on letting go. The whole thing throws me off so much that I forget what I was going to even reply.

    "Even if," I start, slowing down and then remembering my train of thought, "I get out, then what? I go back home to the people who's marriage I ruined?"

    "Did your mom actually say that?" Thomas asks.

    "She didn't have to," I say. "Their only real differences are when it comes to me. It's a wonder my father even came the other day, he hates me, I'm sure."

    "Don't say that," Thomas says. "You're gonna get out of there. We both will. If you don't want to go home, you don't have to."

    "I have nowhere else to go," I say, absentmindedly moving my thumb across Thomas' skin. I only realize a few moments later, but Thomas doesn't seem to. "It's either a mental institution or go back to a broken home."

    "There's places for you to go," Thomas shrugs. "You'll see."

    What's that supposed to mean? If I had a shred of motivation, I'd probably ask. But, for all I know, he could be delusional.

    We ride the next few minutes in silence, listening to the various shouts and murmurs on the bus and looking out the window with our hands still clasped together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! next chapter is gonna be a lot more... eventful. i promise. thank you so much for reading and if you wanted to ask any questions my twitter is @newtsrapp ! let’s chat!


	25. twenty five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Newt’s mind goes to a dark place. Very brief, but be careful and feel free to message me for details. My twitter is @newtsrapp if you’d like to ask there. xx

The small area leading up to the building where we have to cross the street is a great concern to all of the nurses accompanying us. Turns out, walking a big group of mental patients across a road isn’t exactly a simple task.

   We’ve met up with the group from the other bus now, and we’re all awkwardly huddled together on the sidewalk, nurses spread around us to shield anyone from doing who knows what. They’re all talking nervously amongst themselves, most likely strategizing a way to get us to the other side without harm.

   As for me, I’m stood in the back with Thomas. We’re no longer holding hands, but he’s still with me. Before I can get too anxious at the thought that he’s just being nice, I remind myself that Gally’s at the front. He has his own reason for being held back.

   It’s not too hot or too cold, but I wouldn’t be able to tell anyway. I have this thing with sadness and coldness. Whenever I’m sad—like, _really_ sad, the kind of sad that hits you like a ton of bricks—I get a chill. The chill spreads from my chest, down my arms, to my fingertips, and even to my stomach and throat, settling everywhere and paralyzing me for a moment.

   When the sadness is prolonged, like the feeling I’m having now, I just feel like I’m moving through icy water.

   Still, aside from that, it’s odd to be outside after not being able to for so long. It’s something I didn’t think I’d particularly care about, and I haven’t really, being so busy. But nonetheless, it’s refreshing to have the fall air filling my lungs.

   One of the nurses yells from in front, and I only make out the words ‘start’ and ‘hurry’ in my half-listening state. Before I know it, everyone is moving in front of me, and I’m forced to move along with them, counting the numbers in my head and trying not to stumble over anyone else’s feet. God only knows what kind of breakdown I would have over a stumble.

   When we get to the street, I’ve only taken one step onto the pavement when I hit ten, stopping and snapping my fingers quickly. I’m very aware of Thomas’ worried eyes on me as I do so, making anxiety swell up in me like a balloon that’s threatening to pop.

   “Hurry it up,” the annoyed grumbling from a nurse sounds behind me, not helping the situation.

   Luckily, by now, there’s a large enough gap between me and the others that I can cross the street in ten bigger steps, Thomas rushing alongside. But by the time we get to the sidewalk, I’m having to stop to snap my fingers again, my eyes stinging.

   “You don’t have to do this, you know,” Thomas says. His words are kind, but his expression is odd, not even directed at me, but at our surroundings. His eyes keep darting around, looking at the street.

   “I want to,” I say, continuing to walk. Thomas joins, but he still looks off. Normally, I might not ask, but if it takes any attention off of me, it’s worth it. “You okay?”

   “I’m fine, I’m just—” Thomas cuts himself off, finally looking back at me. “On edge.”

   There’s no proper response for that, or at least none that I have the motivation to think of, so I let the words linger as we stop again. Now that we’re this close to the building, I realize what it is—a hotel. It’s a strange place to hold a memorial, but then again, where’s the _right_ place to host two bus loads of people from the psych ward?

   Upon entering the lobby of the hotel, a strange and unwanted memory comes flooding into my mind.

   I was five, and it was only my second time in the States, but at the time, I didn’t realize that I would never be leaving. To a child, the concept of moving isn’t something you can fully grasp. It just felt like a vacation that wasn’t ending.

   Before we could move into our house, we wound up staying at a hotel for two weeks. I can clearly remember running through the lobby with my mother and father trudging along behind me, the two of them smiling and laughing as I jumped around in my swim trunks, making our way to the hotel’s pool. It was like heaven. I was happy. _They_ were happy.

   I fight off the sick feeling in my stomach as I autopilot down the hallway, too caught up in my thoughts to be self conscious when I have to stop to snap my fingers. The sound echoes along with our footsteps, but thankfully it gets lost in the murmurs coming from the group.

   After what felt like one of the longest walks of my life, we arrive at the doors of a room we all flood into, uncomfortably squeezing through. This causes me to accidentally press right up against Thomas, my shoulder against his chest, my heart rate spiking at the contact. It’s strange, considering I’ve _hugged_ him before. But when I feel Thomas lightly put his hand on my back, it feels different. A good different? A bad different? I don’t know.

   “Tommy,” I find myself saying, my words coming out without any thought behind them. It’s mostly to myself, and I silently hope he didn’t hear, but alas, my luck runs short.

   “Yeah?” Thomas asks.

   I stop to snap my fingers, allowing myself those few seconds to think. But nothing good comes to mind, so I’m left with shallow breathing and Thomas’ eyes on me.

   His hand fell from my back once I stopped, the gesture not lasting long, and for some reason, that causes me to be even more… what am I? Flustered? I can’t deal with this right now. I can’t have another thing wrong with me. Can I not handle human contact now? Does that make me anxious?

   “I…” I start, the word getting caught in my throat.

   “Hey, it’s okay,” Thomas says, gaining eye contact with me. There’s concern painted on his face as he tilts his head slightly. “Did something happen?”

   “No,” I say quickly, trying to even out my breathing.

   “Do you want to go sit down?” Thomas asks.

   I completely forgot about that. Looking at the room, it’s decently sized, most likely used for conferences. There’s a few rows of chairs set up, and everyone is already sitting down, making _us_ the last two standing to the side.

   At the front of the room, there’s a podium set up, and beside it, a large picture of Winston. It’s like a wake without the casket, and the thought makes everything more real to me.

   The picture of Winston looks to be from maybe a year ago, although he looks a lot younger than how I knew him. His face is fuller, and he’s wearing a blue jersey from a sports team I don’t recognize, his black hair all spiked up. It reminds me of the way I theorized a younger and happier Thomas, without the sunken in eyes and almost hollow laughs. Winston was smiling. He was not only alive, but _lively._ What happened to him? To all of us?

   “Yeah,” I say, remembering Thomas’ question. “Okay.”

   “Thank you.” The door opens again, turning my attention to the familiar woman walking through the door that’s currently being held open by a nurse.

   It’s Dr. Ava Paige, and she walks right by us, straight to the front of the room. With a quick look at Thomas, I can see his eyes piercing into her like daggers, and it’s unsettling to see, considering his kind expression just a moment ago.

   “Let’s go,” I say, Thomas breaking his gaze to look at me.

   He nods, and we start making our way over, my eyes scanning the crowd. They first land on Chuck, who’s in the fourth row with Aris, waving us over with two empty seats beside him. We head in that direction, me trying to keep my stops short, but as I have to stop halfway over, someone else catches my eye.

   It’s Gally, and he’s looking directly at Thomas.

   “Don’t look, but Gally’s in the second row,” I say lowly, Thomas leaning in to listen as we continue walking. “He’s looking at you.”

   “He saw me?” Thomas asks, his voice wavering.

   “Yeah, but don’t look at him, let’s just sit,” I say, finally making it to the row. Thomas allows me to go in first, so I sit next to Chuck, surprisingly making it in a perfect ten steps. I snap my fingers as Thomas sits down next to me, his leg shaking severely. It makes me anxious, but I don’t tell him that.

   Looking at the front, I see Dr. Paige talking to a woman at the podium. At first glance, I can immediately tell that the woman is related to Winston. She seems to be in her forties, and she’s giving Dr. Paige a tight-lipped unreadable stare as she listens to her speak. Whatever she’s saying, the lady doesn’t seem impressed.

   Finally, Dr. Paige steps away, and up to the podium, setting off a chorus of hushes around the room and leaving the other woman to sit down.

   “Hello, everyone. Thank you for joining us today to remember the life of Winston Flores. He was a very remarkable young man, and he will be truly missed,” Dr. Paige says.

   The words anger me, but I stay silent, unlike someone from a row ahead of me, who very loudly scoffs now. My eyes widen in fear. Of course I would have wanted to do that, but who actually _did_?

   I look at Thomas in disbelief, only to find he’s already looking at me. It takes me another moment to notice his mouth his moving, and my gaze trails down to his lips as he mouths the word ‘Minho’. I quickly look back up to Thomas’ eyes, our close distance making the gesture awkward—in my mind, anyway.

   ‘Really?’ I mouth back, watching Thomas’ eyes flick down to read my lips before coming back up. Would Minho be so blatant like that? It makes sense, considering how he’s spoken about Dr. Paige in the past.

   Thomas simply nods, and I’m left to just face forward, tuning in to whatever Dr. Paige has started saying.

   “...A good brother, and a wonderful son. Would anyone like to say a few words about him?” Dr. Paige asks.

   It’s scary, hearing her talk like this. Like a sympathetic human being, but somehow fake. It’s as if every way I’ve ever seen her be, whether that be here, group therapy, or with my parents, she’s playing a different character.

   A boy from the first row raises his hand before running up to the podium, taking Dr. Paige’s place. He looks around my age, with pale skin and longer brown hair down to his neck. Another distinguishing feature, is that he hasn’t even spoken yet and I can already see that he looks absolutely stoned.

   “Hi, I’m Joe,” he starts. “Wins was my best friend. We did everything together, like in school, and at soccer, and just, like… all the time, I guess.”

   He sounds so high that I can barely take anything he’s saying seriously, even if I’m trying. Part of me finds it disrespectful of him, especially considering _how_ Winston died. But the other part of me understands.

   “I thought we would be in our forties someday, both with families and hanging out together. I never thought he wouldn't be there for that. But he deserved to be, y’know? Sure, he made a few mistakes, but hasn’t everyone? I dunno, man,” Joe continues. Leaving my previous harsh judgement behind, I feel bad for the kid. He looks up at the ceiling now, and his next words sound more choked up. “I miss you, dude. You were the coolest guy I’ll ever know.”

  
  
  


Turns out, Winston had a few friends in school, because several go up to talk about him, both boys and girls. I stopped counting after ten, but each of their speeches makes me feel a bit sicker. It’s not fair. It truly isn’t.

   After a small girl with a shaved head speaks, someone stands up that I recognize immediately. _Minho_.

   “Go ahead, Minho,” Dr. Paige says, nodding at Minho, who doesn’t acknowledge her back in any way.

   I hold my breath as he looks out at the crowd, a small humorless smile playing on his features. Whatever he’s going to say, I can only hope it’s pleasant.

   “I didn’t know Winston as long as a lot of you did, because I’m from TIMI. So I didn’t get to see him the way he deserved to be,” Minho starts. This could either go in a nice direction, or a horrible one. “See, him and I were very similar. In for the same kinds of things. So we got along quickly. He used to say that we would get out and get back on track, stay in touch. Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t those not sound like the words of a kid that was planning to overdose?”

   The room’s tension can be cut with a knife. I know he’s right, but why would he say that with Winston’s family here? Or Dr. Paige?

   “That’s quite enough—”

   “I’m not finished,” Minho cuts Dr. Paige off, giving her an icy glare before turning back to us all. “When you go into a mental institution, you’re expected to be helped there, correct? It’s controlled, they put you on a truckload of medication, you can’t even go to the bathroom on your own. This was _their_ fault. Nobody would listen to a word I have to say, because I’m just a lowlife psycho in their eyes. But everyone here that _isn’t_ from TIMI, you can—”

   “ _Mr. Park_ ,” Dr. Paige shouts warningly over Minho.

   The next few seconds are a blur. Two bigger nurses come up to Minho, Minho shoves them off, they get more aggressive, so does he, and before I know it, he’s being taken out of the room and everyone has erupted into talking and yelling.

   Dr. Paige tries to quiet down the chaos in the room, but it doesn’t seem to be working. I can hear Chuck speaking loudly to my right, and Thomas saying something to my left, but I just look forward. It’s too much. The loudness triggers a tightening in my chest, and the room feels like it’s slowly rotating, but I sit still.

   “ _Quiet_!” A voice from the front commands the room, everyone dying down to see the source.

   It’s the woman that was talking to Dr. Paige before, and she’s standing at the podium. Dr. Paige is still standing but far to the left of her, blocking the picture of Winston.

   “I’m Marie Flores, Winston’s mother. If you could all sit down, I’d greatly appreciate it,” she says. I feel guilty at Minho’s speech somehow, knowing she heard it all. Even though I didn’t actually _give_ the speech, it’s like he represents us all. She looks extremely tired and worn out, and I can’t blame her. The poor woman has been through a lot.

   Everyone quiets down as she asked, so she continues speaking. “Thank you for everyone’s nice speeches about Winston. He would have appreciated them greatly. I’m glad you’re all here today, because I’d like anyone that knew Winston personally from TIMI to stand up.”

   Around the room, I see the Normals stand up, along with two or three other people that I don’t recognize. I consider for a moment, but I really didn’t know Winston at all. All I knew was that he took Thomas’ pills.

   “Nine of you, then?” Mrs. Flores says. I wince. “Come speak to me before you leave, I’ll need your names,” she says, before taking a deep breath. “My family and I have reached the decision to investigate the death of my son further. So, if all goes as I think it will… I’ll see a few of you in court. Thank you all for coming. As for those who knew Winston, meet me in the lobby.”

   As she walks out, a frantic Dr. Paige following her, my jaw drops slightly, everyone else not jumping back into their previous madness as I suspected. Instead, there’s a moment of silence, followed by hushed speaking throughout the room.

   “There’s going to be a lawsuit?” Thomas says from beside me. He’s not looking at me as he speaks, so I assume he’s talking to himself when he swears under his breath.

   What have they found out that’s sparking the lawsuit? Is it something Thomas did? Whatever it was, it seems to have his mother angry, and understably so.

   “You don’t have to go talk to her,” I say, turning to Thomas. “You could just—”

   “No,” Thomas interrupts. “No, I have to. If it was TIMI, like I think it is, then they have to know everything.”

   He’s braver than I am. I could never go up to Winston’s mother and confess that I gave him extra medication, no matter _what_ the excuse may be.

   “Okay,” I say, making no effort to talk him out of it. I don’t have the energy.

  
  
  


It takes a while to leave the hotel.

   They’d taken Minho back to the bus already, so Thomas and the rest of the people who knew Winston had to stop to talk to Mrs. Flores, while everyone else waited awkwardly by the doors. Another great thing, is that Gally is now standing only a few people away from me. If Thomas stood in the back with me, Gally would be sure to see him.

   Which is exactly what he does. So, now I’m at the crosswalk once again, with Thomas next to me and Gally in front with only one or two people dividing us.

   The street is busier this time, so they decided to do three groups to get us across. As both of the first groups go, I get more and more anxious. It’s been too much anxiety today, so much that I could pass out right now from all of it. My limbs feel like lead when they call out for us to start moving, as the light has turned red and we only have twenty seconds.

   I’m not thinking when I walk. Of course I’m thinking about the numbers, but I’m not _thinking_.

   So when I hear a shout, I’m not thinking.

   When I stop to snap my fingers at the end of the pavement one or two steps before the sidewalk, I’m not thinking.

   I only start thinking when I see Gally pushing Thomas. I only start realizing when Thomas gets pushed into me. I’m only watching the scene from afar when I stumble into the road, halfway between my fingers snapping for the fifth and sixth time.

     _WRONG_ , my mind screams at me. It’s wrong, it’s all wrong. I moved, how could I _move_? My chest is constricting and my heart beat becomes audible in my ears. How many times did I step backwards? Who’s looking at me? Someone's reaching out to me, I can’t move. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.

    _Cold_. I’m cold all over. My chest, my arms, my fingers, my throat, my stomach. I stumble back another step, revealing a sharp and sudden pain coming from somewhere I can’t identify. How many seconds has it been? Four? Five?

    _Paralyzed_. I can’t bring myself to move. I can’t bring myself to breathe.

   I hear the car. I see the car. I don’t move out of the car’s way.

   Time stops. Why? Why should I move?

   The last thing I remember is someone’s hands on me and searing pain.


	26. twenty six

I’m dead.

   That’s my first thought. Because, at first, I don’t feel anything. Not even necessarily conscious. So, I come to the decision that this is death.

   Strangely enough, I don’t mind it. I’m not scared. Then again, I’m too out of it to be scared. If anything, I’m disappointed. It’s uneventful. And I have this unbelievable fog clouding my brain—if that even matters when you’re dead—so I can’t really comprehend… well, anything.

   That is, until a little bit of the fog clears with a little beeping sound that grows louder and louder into absolute chaos.

   Then, the world crashes down around me.

   My eyes open and something tears in my chest. I know where I am. It’s not home, it’s not TIMI. And it’s certainly not the afterlife.

   Memories flood through my brain. Gally pushing Thomas, Thomas bumping into me. The car. Feeling like my heart stopped. My _tens_.

   I look down at myself and there’s a blanket covering me, so I can’t see anything. But I _feel_ something.

   My foot. It’s killing me, and it feels like I’m wearing a shoe. After my mind clears a little more, I rationalize that it must be some sort of wrap or cast.

   I’m in a hospital. I don’t know what happened exactly, but passing out seems plausible. Passing out sounds good right about now. Have I walked anymore? What number was I on again? How many steps back did I take?

   Nobody is in the small area—just a bed with curtains around it—with me. I feel everything closing in, and my head starts pounding. I can’t be here. I don’t want to be here. I need to finish my tens, figure out where I was. My brain won’t shut off.

   Suddenly, I become aware that I’m mumbling. After that, I become aware that my mumbling is louder than I thought it was.

   A curtain flies to the side to reveal a nurse, and she rushes towards me, speaking into a device pinned to her shirt. I can’t hear her over myself. I can’t hear _myself_ over the rushing of my blood to my head.

   “I’m not supposed to be here.” I break the chain of my mumbling to get the one coherent thought out, my eyes brimming with tears.

   “I know, sweetie,” the nurse says. Her words are kind, but her voice is cold. Everything is cold.

   Every word that comes out of me now, isn’t me. It’s some panicked, broken boy far away from where I am. It’s the same boy whose parents told him they were getting a divorce. He won’t stop talking. He won’t stop crying.

   “What happened? Where am I? Where are my parents? I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here. What happened to my leg? What number was I on? Get me out of here, I need to get out of here.” The words cannot physically stop flowing out.

   “Just relax, okay? You’re a little hurt, but you’ll be alright,” she says, but I don’t listen.

   I keep talking and talking as she messes with something next to me. It’s like I’m trapped in a box with no room to move, and there’s a fire growing in the corner. I can’t do anything to stop the burning, I can’t do anything to lessen the pain.

   My last thought before I’m hit with a wave of sleepiness, is that maybe whoever saved me from that car didn’t save me at all.

  
  
  


The next time I awaken, it’s with a visit from my parents. Aka, the last people on the planet that I want to see right now.

   But at the same time, I feel like I want to see them the most. It’s the comfort of them being my parents that makes me want them, but the discomfort of everything happening right now making me wish they didn’t know I was even here. Facing them is not what I wanted to deal with right now.

   Yet, here I am, sitting next to my crying mother and my stone faced father.

   “Baby, what happened? Why were you in the street?” she asks.

   I messed up my ten. _That’s_ what happened. But I can’t tell her that. “I don’t know.”

   “They said someone pushed you, is that true?” she asks.

   “Not really,” I say. Technically, _Thomas_ was pushed. I was knocked into. But in my not-all-there state, I don’t say any of that.

   “So why? Were you—were you there on purpose?” she asks.

   “I don’t know,” I say.

   Big, huge, insurmountable mistake.

   “Were you trying to get hit? Oh God, Lawrence, get a nurse, get a doctor. Is Dr. Janson still here? We need him,” she rushes.

   “Mom, no, please,” I say weakly, but she doesn’t listen. Of course she doesn’t listen.

   My father gets up, and my mother returns her attention to me.

   “Newt, sweetie, is this because of us? Did I do this? Was this my fault?” she asks. That is a _devastating_ question.

   “Was the divorce _my_ fault?” I ask, finding an ounce of strength in my voice.

   “May I have a moment with Newton?” Ah, Rat Man. Just the man I wanted to see.

   “Of-of course,” my mother says, getting up. She gives me a worried glance before exiting the room.

   “Newton, how are you feeling? How’s the leg?” Dr. Janson asks, sitting in a chair near my bedside. That must be the dumbest question I’ve ever heard.

   “I don’t know. I don’t know anything,” I say. I’m not in the mood for therapy.

   “How much do you remember?” Janson asks.

   “I was bumped into while I was doing my tens and it threw it all off,” I say. Nothing else seems relevant.

   “Pushed into the street, correct?” Janson asks.

   “I guess.”

   “Did you see the car coming?” Janson asks.

   “I guess,” I say again. It’s the truth.

   “Why didn’t you move?” Janson asks.

   “Look, I’m alive, aren’t I? Why does it even bloody matter at this point,” I ask.

   “Because we need to know what was going through your head,” Janson asks. “When you were brought in, they asked you if you ever had suicidal thoughts. You said no. Was that true?”

   My blood runs cold. “Yes.”

   “Newton, you need to be truthful with me,” Janson says. My poker face must be worse than I thought.

   I’m silent for a moment. “I never acted on anything.”

   “Not until today,” Janson says. I’m silent again, a pit in my stomach growing and threatening to swallow me whole. I want to be home—but not my current home. I want to be home five years ago, before I was crazy and before my parents wanted to divorce. I want to stop thinking about how many snaps I missed. I want to stop thinking about the steps I didn’t count. I want Thomas to come and tell me that he can fix this. I want this to be fixed. I don’t want to be me.

   When I don’t respond, Dr. Janson gets up again.

   “We’ll have you moved back to TIMI once you’re cleared. They have to make sure your head is alright, after you fell. We’re next door, so it’ll be easier for you to get there,” Janson says.

   I only have one question. “How will I walk?”

   “Would you prefer crutches or a wheelchair?” Janson asks.

   My mind briefly trails back to Thomas pushing me in the wheelchair back to my room. “Wheelchair.”

   “I’ll arrange that,” Janson says, then leaves without another word.

   My parents don’t come back in. Maybe they were told to leave. Maybe my mother doesn’t want to answer my question.

  
  
  


They offer me food, but I don’t want it. I wind up only eating strawberry Jell-O, it’s all I can stomach. It’s brought to me by a different nurse this time; a nicer one.

   “You’ll be out of here soon, kiddo,” he says, once I take the cup from him. Leaving here doesn’t matter much to me. What’s the point? The only thing waiting for me back there is more questions about what happened. The only silver lining would be Chuck and Thomas, but they’ll be busy worrying about the lawsuit.

   “So… your head seems to be okay,” he says. Does it really? Because to me, it’s the furthest it’s ever been from okay. “It’s just your foot you have to worry about. Your ankle is fractured, but it shouldn’t take too long to heal it.”

   Fractured. Great. How will my tens work in a wheelchair? Push it ten times and then snap?

   “Your friend that saved you was quite worried. You passed out after, and he insisted to come and see you, but they didn’t allow any visitors aside from your parents and doctors,” he says. _This_ catches my attention.

   “Did—do you know who grabbed me?” I ask.

   “It was Thomas. I’m a nurse at TIMI, but I usually work the solitary unit. If I could have let Thomas see you, I would have. But that’s not up to me, unfortunately,” he says. “My name is Vince, by the way.”

   Vince is an older looking guy, but he has a peaceful voice and a very chilled out vibe to him. It’s odd that he’s a nurse at TIMI, because most of them seem completely cold and without feeling.

   I should have known Thomas was the one that grabbed me. But I’m never one to assume. Should I thank him? It seems like the right thing to do.

   “Do you know what’s going to happen to me when I go back?” I ask. “Am I going to be in solitary?”

   “I’m not sure yet. Maybe for a day,” Vince says. “But I’ll try to be the one working, so that you’ll have a friendly face there.”

   “Thanks,” I say softly, looking down at my legs, covered by the blanket. Something Thomas said about liking one of the nurses in solitary pops into my mind. It was probably Vince.

   “No problem, kid. Thomas will be happy to see you when you get back,” Vince says. My heart constricts. I’ve had friends before, but nobody’s ever cared about me like that.

   Thomas promised me that I’d get out. He’d help me get out. But how am I supposed to do that when I’ve just been set back so far that I can’t see even getting back to the way I was when I arrived?

   I can’t take being there anymore. Not when I know that my parents don’t want me home anyway. Not when I know that everyone thinks I stepped in front of the car on purpose. I don’t want to be there. I don’t know where I _do_ want to be.

   I want out.


	27. twenty seven

The transfer back to TIMI is mostly a blur. I put up a fight getting into my wheelchair and they assure me that I’m not taking any steps. Vince is there, and he helps. He’s the only person working at TIMI that I might actually like.

   I’m wheeled there by him, and he makes polite, one sided small talk. He doesn’t seem to mind my lack of engagement, and I’m thankful for it. Chatting about the weather isn’t exactly my biggest concern.

   I listen to him, though. He tells me how he was transferred to TIMI two years ago, and he’s vague about whether or not he likes it. I get the feeling he might want to leave soon.

   Along with that information comes something that catches my ear.

   “I’ve known your friend Thomas for as long as I’ve been here,” Vince says, as we make our way up to my building.

   “Wait, didn’t you say that you’ve been here for two years?” I ask, breaking my silence.

   I don’t realize until after that I’d interrupted him, and it takes him a second to respond, most likely thrown off by my sudden interjection.

   “Yeah, I actually met him on my first week working here. I was kind of scared, but he helped me realize that…” he trails off.

   “That we’re humans?” I ask. I don’t mean for it to sound as bitter as it does.

   “Well—I guess so. It’s not fair, the way some outsiders see you kids. I know now that you’re no different from anyone else,” he says. I wouldn’t say _that_ , but I get what he’s trying to say. “Anyway, I was assigned outside of his solitary room. He’s a special kid.”

   Yeah. He is.

  
  
  


Sure enough, I get to spend a luxurious night in solitary. It’s funny how much I miss Chuck’s endless babbling about everything and nothing. His presence in our shared room was comforting, and clearly I took it for granted.

   It’s not like I’m not used to having my own room. That’s how it was at home. But it’s different here somehow. At home, I had my parents in the next room and the comfort of my bed beneath me. All of my belongings. Here, I have nothing, and the only people I _do_ have aren’t accessible to me right now.

   Like he said, Vince is posted right outside the room. There’s a window in the door that he peeks through every few minutes, giving me a small smile. I can’t find it in me to reciprocate.

   I can’t help but wonder, is this rock bottom? There are many times in my life where I thought I finally hit it. The lowest of the low. But now I seem to be having at least one of those moments per week.

   The best thing I can do with this time—aside from feeling sorry for myself—is to sort out the answers for every question I’ll undoubtedly be bombarded with tomorrow. It should be an easier task, considering they’re questions about _me_. But right now, I don’t know myself from a hole in the wall.

   Question number one will most likely be the hot button issue of why I didn’t move from my spot in the street. I don’t think they’d want to hear _any_ of my real answers. Like how I couldn’t handle messing up my tens.

   Like how maybe I didn’t want to move.

   So I set my answer straight in my head. I didn’t have time to process what was happening, and I wasn’t fast enough to move on my own. Deer in headlights. Doesn’t that happen all the time?

   They’ll probably also want to know the exact events. Gally pushed Thomas. Thomas knocked into me. I stumbled into the street. Thomas grabbed me. I passed out. That simple.

   Speaking of Thomas, he has the lawsuit to focus on. Since I’m already caught up in my thoughts, maybe I should address anything that I need to sort through Thomas-wise.

   It feels like a million years ago now, but today was… weird. That strange pang of anxiety while walking into the memorial. Holding hands on the bus. How I felt when he walked in on me changing.

   A horrible thought seeps into my mind. I know Thomas is bisexual, so… am I somehow not okay with that? Does that make me uncomfortable? I don’t _think_ it does. God, how horrible would I be? Unforgivable.

   But being around Thomas makes me feel good. I don’t _think_ I’m actively thinking about his sexuality, that’d be strange. Things with him feel unlike any of the other friendships I’ve made. Unless I’m just overthinking it.

   Thomas says he can help me. Vince wasn’t kidding when he called him a special kid, I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone like him. Of course he’s still a mystery—even medically speaking—but maybe that’s part of what makes him interesting. And if he claims he can help me, what’s the harm there?

   Maybe it’s the fact that he keeps reminding me so much of Alby. I know it, I can’t ignore that even though I’ve tried. If I’m going to be my own therapist, then maybe I get anxious with Thomas sometimes because of how things left off with Alby. I couldn’t take that happening with Thomas.

   Although as much as he reminds me of my old friend, he feels different somehow. Ironically enough, Thomas would probably claim he’s the only one who could actually figure all of this out for me.

   Right now, I don’t have a home. Not really. I don’t have a place or a person that I can look to and call it my safe space. Something I know isn’t going away. I’m just floating around in limbo, without anything to lean on. But when I held Thomas’ hand on that bus, there was a little spark of that feeling there. A little bit of home.

   The thought makes me feel immediately sick.

   “Vince?” I call.

   The door opens and Vince pokes his head in, eyebrows raised questioningly. I’m sitting on the bed that he had to lift me onto, even though I would be perfectly capable of doing it myself. Well, I would if I was normal. But every time I think about moving my legs, I feel paralyzed. Everything goes numb and I start to panic about my interrupted ten again.

   “I need to go to the bathroom,” I say. Really, I just want out of the room. But clearly my poker face isn’t working.

   “Is something wrong?” he asks.

   “No,” I lie.

   He nods and walks over to me, leaving the door open behind him. I have to scoot over to the edge of the bed as he helps me transfer, and it’s utterly humiliating to need. If one of the Normals walked by the door, I’d hate myself even more.

   But none of them do, and before I know it I’m in the chair. He pushes me out, and I stare at my hands. I didn’t think this through. How will going to the bathroom work?

   I assume that there’s a special bathroom reserved for the solitary section, but there isn’t and he wheels me into the usual one. Also, right into Chuck.

   “Newt!” Chuck says, his eyes shooting open. “Thomas told me what happened, are you okay? What’s wrong with your foot? Why aren’t you in our room? How did—”

   “Chuck,” I say calmly, stopping him. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I’m in solitary right now, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”

   “But why are you in solitary? Are you—did you get… violent?” Chuck asks, his eyes somehow going even wider.

   “No,” I say. They just want to make sure I won’t somehow throw myself in front of another car while in our room.

   “Then why?” Chuck asks.

   “For supervision,” Vince chimes in. I’m grateful for it, I don’t want to explain it to Chuck.

   “Oh,” Chuck says. “Well… I’ll see you in the morning, right?”

   “Sure,” I say.

   Chuck seems satisfied with that answer and lets us go around him, Vince rolling me to one of the stalls. I go to ask him how it works, but he beats me to it, placing me in front of one of the toilets.

   “How would you like to do this?” he asks.

   It’s probably the most difficult question I’ve ever been asked.

   You know that boy? The boy that cried to his nurse today? The boy that cried when he found out his parents were getting a divorce?

   He’s back. And he feels absolutely worthless.

  
  
  


There’s that famous rock bottom again. It’s the first thing I feel when I wake up, like a black hole ripping through me from head to toe.

   I’ve got the coldness, too. I can feel it in my bones, and the only place I can’t feel it is in my eyes. But eyes are red and sore, and now I’m numb. Like pins and needles throughout my body.

   The pain in my foot isn’t even comparable.

   After another horrible bathroom experience, Vince brings me to my actual room; my joint room with Chuck. He’s not there, and that makes my getting dressed a lot less uncomfortable than it would have been. Although it’s not exactly a picnic anyway.

   As Vince wheels me towards the dining room, I don’t know what to expect. It hasn’t even been a day, this sort of thing happens all the time, so I’m sure nobody will care that I’ve been gone. They all know what happened too, so there’s nothing to ask. They’re probably busy talking about the lawsuit.

   A question suddenly strikes me.

   “Did they take Minho to solitary?” I ask, my voice cracking from the lack of use—aside from audibly sobbing.

   “I don’t actually know,” Vince says. “I’ve been assigned to watch you since the incident yesterday, so I haven’t been told anything. I’d assume he’d get just the night like you.”

   I don’t answer, my mind shifting back to the impending breakfast. Again, the most I’ll get is an acknowledgment from Chuck. But in the endless abyss that is my insides right now, there’s a clump of butterflies and overblown balloons. No matter what, shaking my anxiety is hard.

   When he opens the door and pushes me into the room, nobody notices at first. So I survey how they look. Minho and Jeff are engaged in a conversation that Zart seems to be listening in on. Chuck is talking to Aris, and I don’t see Fry so he’s most likely in the kitchen.

   Then there’s Thomas. He’s sitting on the end of the table closest to me, and he’s staring down at his food, his elbows resting on the table and his head hanging. That is, until he notices me being wheeled up to the table.

   His head snaps up. “Newt”—he drops his fork—“your foot, how bad is it?”

   All eyes on me now. My breath hitches, and I decide to only look at Thomas. It’s less intimidating that way. “It’s fractured.”

   “Here, let me help you to the table,” Vince says. Thomas looks up at him, apparently only just noticing his presence.

   “Hey, Vince,” Thomas says.

   I assume Vince replies in some way, but I’m too busy awkwardly being transferred onto the bench. It feels like I’m an infant being taken out of a stroller and put into a high chair, and it makes me wish Thomas and the others weren’t here. It makes me wish _I_ wasn’t here.

   Once I’m sitting, everyone says _hi_ and _sorry_ to me, and I give them a small hint of a smile in return. It’s all I can muster, and it takes all of my effort.

   When I look back at Thomas, I expect pity, but don’t find any. Instead, he looks sincerely apologetic, and maybe even anxious. “It’s my fault.”

   “How is it your fault?” I ask, so taken aback by his question that it comes out louder than intended.

   I can feel the others looking at me, their eyes burning holes in the side of my head, but I don’t look back.

   “I bumped into you. I’m the one that interrupted—” Thomas stops himself.

   “It was my own fault, I didn’t move,” I say. Thomas’ face goes pale, and I sigh. “Because of my tens. I froze.”

   The information seems to help Thomas, but not enough. “We were all worried. You hit your head, and after everything recently, we don’t trust people to keep us updated,” Thomas says.

   Frypan stops by at that moment to give me my food, giving me a warm smile as he does so and greeting me. I’m the furthest from hungry.

   “Thank you,” I say quietly. Thomas has to lean forward to hear me. “For grabbing me.”

   Thomas nods. “I’m sorry I didn’t get there faster.”

   “It all happened quickly,” I counter.

   Thomas opens his mouth, then closes it. When he opens it again, he speaks slowly, like anything too sudden will scare me away. “How have you been dealing with your tens?”

   “Badly,” I say. “I haven’t been able to do anything, and any time I think about moving my feet on the ground, I freeze and start having a panic attack. That’s why Vince has to help me do everything.”

   It’s weird how easy it is to talk to Thomas about all of this. I don’t feel judged even though I’m embarrassed, and he seems curious.

   “Maybe after breakfast, I can help you reset it again,” Thomas says. It sounds like he’s humoring me. It sounds like he’s mocking me. It sounds like after those words, he’d laugh and tell me how moronic my tens are. None of that is true with him.

   “Maybe,” I say softly, looking down at my breakfast. It’s the most unappealing food I’ve ever looked at. Not the actual eggs or toast, but the fact that I need to eat something in general. But remembering what Thomas said, I know I need to suck it up.

  “Why would something _we_ say hold up in court?” I hear Minho ask. “Especially you, Zart. I don’t even know your _name_.”

   “Yeah, well, your mom knows my name,” Zart retorts.

   Oddly enough, that makes me smile a bit, looking up to see Thomas looking at me and matching the smile as Minho gives him a halfhearted “F—shuck you, dude.” It wasn’t even particularly funny, but any slight amount of humor in here is appreciated.

   Chuck giggles, turning to me. He then gives me a smile so innocent, I almost look away at the wholesomeness. “I missed you.”

   It’s so simple, but it’s somehow exactly what I need. My smile at Zart’s ridiculous joke turns into a more appreciative one, looking at the younger boy beside me.

   “I missed you too,” I say. He grins and goes back to listening to Minho, and I finally take a bite of food. It’s difficult to swallow, my throat stinging and my mouth aching, but I do it anyway. No matter how hard it is.

  
  
  


Vince allows Thomas to take me back to my room after breakfast, and the whole time he pushes me there, he sounds almost uncharacteristically chipper. Maybe it’s just the fact that I’m so down that being jovial in any way looks odd to me, but for someone that’s about to be involved in a lawsuit, he doesn’t seem concerned. Plus, it’s a lot different from how he seemed when I came into breakfast.

   He pushes me into the room and beside my bed, then stands in front of me with his hands on his hips and his brow furrowed.

   “How did Vince do this? If it’s all the same to you, can I just… pick you up?” Thomas says, looking between me and the bed.

   My face goes bright red in an instant, and I can’t even begin to fight the burning on my cheeks. When Vince does it, he’s a nurse, that’s his job. But Thomas? That’s a new level of embarrassing.

   “I can do it,” I say, looking at the bed. How pathetic would it be to crawl on there? No, I need to find another way.

   I stand up, and Thomas’ hand immediately finds itself on my hip, looking like he didn’t give it an ounce of thought before doing so. Then, I shakily slide myself onto my bed, sitting down. That shouldn’t have counted as a step, right?

   “Alright, Newt. I’ve got some information that’ll help you out a _lot_ ,” Thomas says. I doubt it, but I humor him anyway.

   “What’s that?”

   “Well, first things first, I know what you were up to in your snapping. Snap five more times and you’re good on that,” Thomas says.

   I look at him skeptically. “I still have the steps I took.”

   “Counted those too,” Thomas says. “Four steps back, then two forward when I grabbed you.”

   “You’re serious?” I ask. But I don’t want the answer, and I think he knows that.

   “Dead serious. So snap five times, walk four steps, and everything is good,” Thomas says. “Here, I’ll help.”

   I snap five times, then Thomas comes to my side and helps me off the bed. To do so, he holds my shoulder and my right wrist when I stand, and I look at him to see him looking at my feet.

   “Four steps?” I ask quietly.

   “Four steps, Newt.” Thomas gives me a small smile as he looks up.

   He rubs ten little circles into my wrist with his thumb as I take the steps. Then, when he helps me back onto the bed, he sits with me.

   “More good news?” Thomas says. “I think I may be able to crack the code in that pretty head of yours.”

   My eyes widen. He’s said this before, but he looks extra smug about it this time. What could have changed? If anything, I’m worse. “You mean… fix me? But I told you I’m not suppressing anything, there’s nothing to figure out.”

   “That’s where you’re wrong,” Thomas says, and I notice his feet are kicking like a child’s. “You just have to trust me. Okay?”

   Trust him in what way? Well, I don’t really have much to lose at this point. I may even trust Thomas more than I trust TIMI right now. “Okay.”

   He nods, then looks at me with that one-of-a-kind Thomas eye contact.

   “First things first,” Thomas starts, his smile wavering. My heart is pounding. I don’t know why it’s pounding. “You need to tell me everything about you and Alby.”


	28. twenty eight

I met Alby in my first year of middle school.

   I was eleven then, and more or less, I was a normal kid. Maybe a bit quiet, but normal. I’d joke with people in this dry sense of humor I used to—and still maybe do—have and I’d laugh until my stomach hurt. I’d run around the field at school and I wouldn’t mind when the other kids bumped into me. So by all means, aside from a little anxiety, I was normal.

   Alby was in every one of my classes that year. It took us a few days to start talking, due to first week of school nerves. But when our seats were permanently switched next to each other’s in first period, we had no choice but to strike up a friendship.

   He was kind, he shared my odd sense of humor, and he loved reading and writing. Basically, everything I could have asked for in a friend. It all escalated from there, I met a few of his friends at lunch—Jack, Jorge and Clint—and they immediately accepted me into their little clique.

   We began hanging out outside of school soon after, switching off between all of our houses and different places around town. We’d play football—well we’d _try_ to sometimes—or video games and just hung about annoying the parents of whoevers house we were in. It was a great time.

   When I was in my last year of middle school and thirteen years old, the group of us came to my house. My house wasn’t used for our hangouts that often because my father despised the noise, but if we mostly stuck to my front yard, he didn’t complain a lot. I think he was also just glad I had friends.

   Everyone else stayed in my front yard while I walked inside to greet my parents like I normally did after coming home from school, and I froze in the doorway. The two of them were standing on opposite sides of the living room, tears streaming down my mother’s face as my father yelled. I felt that familiar tug in my chest and crack in my heart, and they didn’t notice me standing there until I remembered to close the door.

   “What’s this about, then?” I’d asked them, walking over and standing in the exact middle of my parents against the wall. That was important—don’t look like you’ve chosen a side.

   They explained the argument to me angrily and it took several minutes to calm them down to get a clear story. But once I’d pieced it together, I sat them down and told them what both of their issues were. We all yelled. We all cried. But eventually, I got things to be alright.

   That’s when I remembered my friends outside.

   I launched up from the couch and frantically ran out, apologies already flooding from my mouth. But they were busy. Busy talking to Teresa.

   She was standing on my lawn in a blue dress that made her eyes noticeably brighter, smiling her dazzling smile as she spoke to my friends. Particularly, she was talking mostly to Alby, who was trying embarrassingly hard to be funny. No matter how bad his attempt was, she laughed anyway. Of course she would.

   Something in me burned at the sight. I don’t know what it was, anger maybe? It makes no sense to be angry, but whatever it was, it was strong. Strong enough to carry me down the stairs and right in front of Alby.

   “What’re you doing here?” I’d asked her, forcing it to come out in a friendlier tone than originally intended. I added a smile to soften the blow.

   “My mom said your mom told me to stop by to get the math homework I missed today from you. I was out sick,” she’d said.

   “You don’t look ill,” I’d said with a frown.

   “No, you don’t. Not at _all_ ,” Alby had said. I had to fight every instinct I had not to roll my eyes.

   Teresa blushed. “Thanks,” she’d said, then turned to me expectantly. I nodded my head towards my door, and she ran up to it without any further conversation, letting herself in.

   I took a subtle deep breath, then turned to my friends.

   “Guys, I think we should just hang out tomorrow. I’m sorry, it’s just been a weird day,” I said.

   “But you can hang out with your girlfriend?” Jorge had teased, everyone else laughing. But not me. My face burned red, and I felt like I was floating outside my body watching him make the accusation.

   “She’s not my girlfriend,” I’d said, making Jorge laugh even harder, telling me to relax.

   When everyone else was leaving, Alby stuck behind for a moment, grabbing my arm before I could turn away. I’d looked down at it, then up at him. He moved his hand and my breath hitched at the suddenness.

   “Is everything okay? You seem off, and you were in there for a long time,” Alby had asked.

   “I’m fine,” I’d lied. “I’m just tired is all.”

   He looked hesitant, but nodded. “Just checking.”

   “Thank you,” I’d said sincerely, giving him a smile. He returned it, and I went inside.

   All that night, I kept on thinking about how nice it was of Alby to care about how I felt. After mediating my parents, I’d usually be drained and want nothing more than to sleep. But nobody ever asked me if I was okay.

   From then on, I felt more connected to Alby than anyone else in the world. Every moment I could possibly be with him, I was. He didn’t seem to have a problem with it, because he would ask me to hang out as much as I’d ask him.

   Towards the end of the school year, by the time we were fourteen, Alby came to my house one night to sleep over. It wasn’t uncommon, we did it all the time. The only reason this time was different, was that I walked into my bedroom to find Alby making out with Teresa, the two of them sitting on my bed.

   Despite my parents’ fights, despite any bad event that could happen in the span of a fourteen year old’s life, _this_ was the worst moment of it thus far. It couldn’t have taken them more than three seconds to notice me, but it felt like a year. Logically, there was no reason to be angry. It’s not like I had a crush on Teresa or anything, and Alby was my best friend. Aren’t you supposed to be happy for your best friend?

   I felt a wave of emptiness and nausea take over me unlike anything I’d ever felt before as they looked up at me sheepishly, Teresa giggling. At that moment, I’d decided that being hit in the stomach with ten baseball bats would be far more pleasant.

   The feeling scared me. It scared me so bad that I walked out of the room promptly and locked myself in my bathroom, kneeling beside my toilet in fear that I was going to puke. I’d never felt worse, and my anxiety had never gotten to the point where I was shaking all over until then. Alby came and knocked on the door, asking if I was alright. I’d shakily lied and told him I hadn’t felt well all night. He’d asked if it was about Teresa. I told him no, said it was ‘awesome’. I just didn’t feel well.

   By some miracle, I got him to leave, Teresa being long gone by then. I couldn’t hide my sickness from my mother, so she took my temperature and found that I had no fever. No, I was just insane.

   Alby and Teresa dated until the last day of school. It was a glorious few weeks where I shut myself in my room, avoiding talking to either of them. Every day I racked my brain, wondering why I was so shaken up, why I was so bothered. It made no sense to me. None at all.

   But that last day, when Alby came over crying to me… I know it’s selfish, but that was the greatest day. By then, anxiety every minute of every day had become a normalcy. I’d become cynical and hardened, but only in my mind. On the outside, I remained the kind boy I’d always been. So when Alby told me about his breakup, I maintained a sympathetic appearance. But on the inside, I was ecstatic. I had my best friend back. The period of time that they dated was written off as me missing hanging out with Alby, and the oddness was forgotten about.

   That summer, we were more inseparable than we’d ever been. We did _everything_ together, and we were happy. My anxiety slowly lessened, but it never fully went away. It’s like recovering from chicken pox, the actual problem goes away, but you’re left with those scars anyway.

   One night, Alby was set to sleep over, but of course, my parents chose that night to fight. I was an anxious wreck, and told him to just go home. Why should he be there if I’m going to be miserable and my parents might get set off again at any moment? But Alby shook his head, planting himself on the blow-up bed we got just for him. “No way,” he’d said. “I’m staying.”

   He stayed all night, even tolerating my occasional check-ins on my parents to make sure they were alright. As we laid in my room, he told me it would all be okay. My parents loved each other, and their fights weren’t _that_ often. He told me about his parents, how they fought almost every day, but still, they’re in love. Everything would be fine. And I believed him.

   Freshman year started, and we didn’t have as many classes together, but our friend group had the same lunch, so we would all sit and catch up on each other’s days. It became harder for us all to hang out after school all the time, but we still found the time at least twice a week. We all had our studies—and sports in their case—to worry about, but things were still good.

   That’s why it makes no sense to me that a few months into the school year, I started with my OCD. It was only when I was alone, not around my friends or family. But I’d start doing small things in class or in my room, keeping things even and precise. At the time, I didn’t think about it much. I wrote it off as a funny habit, nothing more.

   One day after school when the rest of our friends were at practice for whatever sport they were in, Alby and I decided to hang out in the library and read the books we’d currently been in the middle of to procrastinate doing our homework. The school library was nice, there was a whole section with tables and computers. We sat opposite each other at a small table near a display of books, and Alby laughed when I started rearranging them to be straight or stood them in a way that I thought looked neat. He’d called me neurotic, telling me they were fine. I laughed it off, but finished fixing the books anyway.

   After a while of us sitting there reading and occasionally showing each other a part we’d read that we found particularly interesting or funny, a small group of older boys sat at a table beside us. I didn’t know them really, I just knew I’d seen them around. But Alby seemed to know them, because he tensed up and looked away from the page I was showing him. I didn’t think much of it; not until they started talking.

   “Hey, Alby,” the boy closest to us said. His smile was ugly and crooked, his teeth messed up and his blonde stringy hair falling into his face. Needless to say, he wasn’t a nice sight—complete with tan pants and a band t-shirt, I might add.

   “Hey, Sam,” Alby had said, his smile tight.

   “This is the famous Newt, then?” Sam said, looking at me. The eye contact made me flinch.

   “Yeah,” Alby said, looking quickly to me before back at Sam.

   “Aren’t you two adorable?” one of Sam’s friend’s added, making all of them laugh.

   Another boy from the group made a gesture I didn’t understand. His tongue was pushing up his cheek and his hand was—oh. _Oh_.

   Everyone burst into laughter again and I turned to Alby, horrified from the scene in front of me. What were they even implying? Whoever and whatever they were, I didn’t want any part of it. None at all.

   Alby swore at them and stood up, walking away while they continued on either making jokes or telling him to calm down. It took me a moment to move, still in shock from how quickly things went sour, but eventually I got up and followed him.

   When I caught up to him, I asked him who they were and why they were so disgusting. He told me not to worry about it, that they were just jerks. I made him promise me that he was fine. He didn’t answer any of my texts that night.

   Alby was weird for about a week after that, but eventually we got back to how we had been. The school year became summer, and at some point our group hangouts had become a little different.

   Well, the best way to describe it is that the group hit puberty. We still played video games and hung around, but some of the language and topics got a bit more… vulgar. Not me, of course. But everyone else. They’d talk about things like parties and girls. Alby hadn’t dated anyone since Teresa, but Jack, Jorge and Clint all dated—although sometimes it was just ‘flings’—different girls. It didn’t stop Alby from talking about girls, though. They’d ask me my opinion sometimes, and every girl pretty much looked the same to me.

   Everyone always assumed that since I have an accent, the girls would be all over me. Of course in middle school some girls would talk to me and giggled when I spoke, but it just kinda stopped. Maybe they were intimidated, maybe I was just ugly. Whatever the reason, they stopped.

   Eventually, around the end of the summer, Alby winded up dating a girl called Harriet for about a week. I never spoke to her, and Alby never introduced me to her. This time the anxiety of losing my friend didn’t last as long, and by then I had something more important to think about. Things like tapping my foot against the ground in tens and what _that_ meant.

   By the time I was in sophomore year, I couldn’t ignore the fact that my OCD had become a problem. My parents had noticed it at home, but in school it wouldn’t happen around my friends much still.

   As for Alby and I, we’d still spend time together, but a bit less. Our sleepovers stopped, and he made a few other friends in addition to our group. But that’s part of growing up, right? I still felt as close to Alby as ever, we were just getting older.

   I told my friends about my OCD while we were sitting at lunch. For some reason, I was nervous about how they’d take it. I thought that they’d think I was a freak, and rightfully so.

   “I looked it up,” I’d said. “It’s OCD. Like what we learned about in health class.”

   “Like when you randomly shout stuff?” Clint had asked.

   “That’s Tourette’s, idiot,” Alby said, rolling his eyes at Clint before he turned to me. “I noticed you had a few… habits. How bad is it?”

   I was shaking my leg in tens as he spoke, and it almost made me laugh at the irony. “I don’t know. Not horrible, but there’s certain things I _need_ to do. It doesn’t change who I am.”

   Back then, I had no clue how wrong I was about that. But they all said it wasn’t a big deal, and that I’d probably grow out of it. They called me ‘crazy’ in a joking way, but I knew they were right.

   As the year went on and my OCD worsened, Alby stopped coming around that often and was frequently busy. Sometimes I’d ask him to hang out but he’d tell me he’d made other plans, or invite me to a party he was going to. He and the rest of our group went to a lot of parties, and they’d tell me to come but I never did. It wasn’t my scene, and I didn’t need my parents finding out I’d gone. Plus, my OCD-induced routines were only developing further.

   It was alright until January. We had just come back from our holiday break, and we were all sitting at our table talking about what we did for the two weeks we had off. Everyone seemed so happy and present, and it had hit me with a wave of nostalgia that I didn’t realize I had.

   “Remember how it was when we were twelve and hanging around each other’s houses every day?” I’d said thoughtfully. “I kinda miss that.” The simpler days when I didn’t have to worry about the amount of times I snapped my fingers.

   Everyone around me nodded in agreement, then started spouting out a few random memories from over the years. We all pitched in, laughing and talking, and it all felt so _normal_.

   “I miss it too,” Alby had said after a while. “But look at us, we’re still the same kids. Nothing’s changed.”

   I smiled. “You’re right.”

   Later that day, empowered by our conversation, I saw Alby walking down the hall and sped up my walking to try to catch up. He stopped at his locker, so I had time to do my tens and still make it to him before he left.

   I walked up once his conversation with the kids next to him ended, snapping my fingers and put my not-occupied hand on his arm to let him know I was there.

   He quickly turned around, forcing my hand off of him. Something about him seemed extremely off, and he looked down at my hand, then back at me. His smile from lunch was gone, and his eyes were darting around us at the other kids in the hallway.

   “Hey,” I’d said. I thought I’d probably scared him from the suddenness.

   “Yeah?” he asked. I furrowed my eyebrows at him, but continued on.

   “I was wondering if you wanted to hang out and stay the night, since it’s Friday,” I’d said.

   Alby took a long time to answer. His expression was making my heartbeat race, and I was utterly confused as to why he was being so odd. It wasn’t quite anger—but maybe it was. I’ll never know.

   “Newt…” he’d said. His face hardened as he looked at the people next to him that I only then noticed were listening. One of them laughed as the other whispered something to them. He looked back at me, and I’ll never forget his next words. “Sorry, man. It’s not like that. See you on Monday.”

   I stood speechless, and the kids listening walked away as I stared after Alby. _It’s not like that_? It’s not like _what_? Like we weren’t friends anymore? Whatever it was, it made me feel sick. Alby was my best friend, I was closer to him than anyone else in the world and I cared about him more than I cared about myself. But no, it wasn’t like that.

   That weekend, I texted Alby and asked him for the history homework I already had. He gave it to me, and then we engaged in some awkward casual conversation.

   On Monday, we both sat at our lunch table, and he was acting normally towards everyone. We never spoke one-on-one, but as a group, we were okay. I thought maybe Friday was a misunderstanding of some sort. Alby didn’t look mad at me or anything.

   But during that week, some days Alby wouldn’t sit with us. Some days that he did, he wouldn’t talk to me. In the hallways, he would give me the minimal amount of acknowledgement as I walked past, counting my steps.

   Eventually, it dawned on me that maybe Alby, Jack, Jorge and Clint didn’t want a crazy kid hanging around them.

   So I stopped trying to get his attention. I stopped texting him and sitting at our table. My tens became the priority, not them.

   If I ever told a therapist this story, they’d over analyze it. But the reality is, my tens started before my falling out with Alby. When my OCD started, everything was fine. Sure, there was that one incident where my anxiety got bad, but that has nothing to do with my OCD. I was just afraid of losing my friend. Technically, it wasn’t irrational.

   But I didn’t mourn the loss of my friends for long. Sure, I missed them, but I didn’t want to hold them back. My OCD ruined my friendships, I’ll admit that, but what could I have done? I don’t regret it looking back, we’d grown apart and my OCD was only getting worse.

   Before that final day at school when Alby saw me in the hallway, the last time we’d spoken was the first day of the year. I was in the Guidance Office waiting for the lady behind the desk to come out so I could get my late pass, and Alby walked in. He gave me an awkward smile.

   “Senior year, huh?” he’d said. “It’s crazy how fast time goes.”

   “Yeah,” I said, the corner of my mouth turning up into a small smile. On the inside, anxiety was sparking in me.

   The lady behind the desk interrupted by giving me my pass, and when I turned to leave, Alby was looking at me.

   “I’ll see you around,” he said.

   “I’ll see you around,” I’d agreed.

  
  
  


I don’t know what comes over me to tell Thomas the whole story, but I do. Beginning, middle and end. I’ve never told it before, I haven’t even thought about it in ages. But I tell him.

   He smiles at some parts, frowns at others, but doesn’t interrupt me once. I’m glad he doesn’t, because the last thing I’d need while remembering the story of mine and Alby’s friendship is someone asking questions.

   “But, again, what does this have to do with fixing my OCD? It started before Alby and I stopped hanging out. I told you, nothing triggered it. It’s two completely separate things. I’ll admit that he didn’t help with my anxiety, but my OCD started on its own,” I say.

   Thomas beams brighter than I’ve ever seen before. His hand flies up and runs through his hair, tugging on it a bit as he laughs excitedly for a moment, then looks at me. For a moment, I’m worried he’s full on lost it.

   “Newt, have I ever told you that I am _always_ right?” Thomas says, leaning towards me. We’re sitting on my bed now, our legs criss-crossed and facing each other.

   “That doesn’t answer my question,” I say, and Thomas chuckles.

   “You have to promise that you trust me,” Thomas says.

   “Now you’re starting to freak me out,” I say. Thomas shakes his head.

   “Promise?”

   The door opens wide and we both turn to see Dr. Janson standing in the doorway, looking at us with his usual stony expression and beady eyes.

   “Newton, I’d like to see you for a few minutes, if that’s alright,” he says.

   “Okay,” I say, a bit annoyed at his timing. I look back at Thomas, and he looks at me.

   “To be continued,” Thomas says, before looking at Janson. “That’s a lovely top hat you’re wearing,” he says. Janson furrows his eyebrows, putting a hand on his head, then quickly putting it down. Is Thomas hallucinating that badly?

   “Thomas, there—” Janson is cut off by Thomas’ laughter as he stands up, walking to the door.

   “I was kidding. You can write that in my file if you’d like. Let’s do this again soon,” Thomas says sarcastically. He turns and winks in my direction before pushing past Janson and out the door.

   A smile actually forms on my face at the ridiculousness of Thomas’ actions, and then I remember Janson standing there. I’m still curious about Thomas’ motives for making me tell the Alby story and why he said he’s always right, but right now, I have another task at hand. Getting myself into that wheelchair, into Janson’s office, and straightening out the whole mess of yesterday.


	29. twenty nine

The next week and a half is a lot of the same thing every day.

   In my meeting with Janson, he informed me that he decided I shouldn’t have contact with my parents. I protested, of course, but to no avail. The calmness on his face while he looked at my fuming one and explained how I was wrong for needing to talk to them was enough to make me want to punch him. I didn’t, but picturing it helped me through the rest of it.

   He also asked all the questions I’d predicted he would, and I explained that I didn’t move from the car because it all happened too fast. Well, turns out mental patients aren’t the most trusted in this area, because it was about the equivalent of a five year old telling their parents it was their dog that drew on the walls. As many times as I insisted my story was true, it didn’t work.

   My therapy sessions since then have been awkward. He asks how I feel about my parents divorce, and I cry or stare at him coldly. I told him I’d cooperate, but when I look at him, the defiance in me flares up. Maybe I’m getting it from Thomas.

   Speaking of him, we never continued our conversation. I was slightly eager to, seeing as he made me tell him about Alby and then never told me why. We’ve seen a lot of each other since then, but he never brings it up, so neither do I. Sometimes we hang out in the rec room, others he’ll just go back to his room.

    As expected, a lot of the conversation at meals is on the subject of the lawsuit. They got letters from a lawyer today, and they’re all scheduled to talk to them soon. All of them seem nervous, especially Chuck. But the good news is that they most likely won’t have to actually appear in court. They’ll probably be used for whatever information they have. Seeing as they’re _here_ , they’re not exactly reliable.

   Thomas doesn’t look as worried as he should, but at breakfast and lunch today he seemed especially jittery. I asked him if he was alright, and he looked up from his plate, grinned, and said “of course” as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. It was a little _too_ forced, but I didn’t mention it.

   After lunch, Thomas rushed to his room and Chuck offered to wheel me to therapy. I told him I could do it, but he didn’t even bother replying. He’s been my personal driver around TIMI, and I’m constantly thanking him. That kid is really too good to me.

   I went to therapy and it was the usual for the most part. He asks me how I’ve been dealing with not speaking to my parents, and I tell him that it sucks. Of course, he asks why, and I almost roll my eyes. I tell him I’m worried about them, and he tells me that I may have attachment issues. This whole therapy thing is turning out to be as big of a bust as I thought it would. I know I said I’d try, but clearly it’s not paying off. Apparently, now my OCD was caused by loving my parents too much.

   Before I left, he told me I was being put on a new medication starting tomorrow ‘in light of recent events’. I didn’t even react or ask what it is. I’m used to it, and honestly, I don’t care.

   Now I’m sitting in my room writing in my journal, because that’s pretty much all I can handle lately. Almost every moment I’m in here, I’m writing. Chuck’s noticed, but he never says anything. I’d feared he would constantly ask what I was writing, but he just lets me continue on doing what I’m doing.

   Focusing on something other than my thoughts helps, although technically the journal is _about_ my thoughts. Sometimes I write in third person, and it makes it easier to just pretend I’m not me. Being me makes me feel sick.

   Every night, after taking a year to go to sleep, I wake up with anxiety. Every morning I wake up with more anxiety. There’s a dull ache in my body all day, and even with the medication, I’m finding it hard not to be depressed. I don’t want to be here anymore. I’m not getting better, and being here has only made everything about my life worse. I’ve got a broken ankle, soon-to-be divorced parents, and all of my OCD to deal with.

   But, yeah. TIMI is great.

   One of the only two good things about this place knocks on the door, and I jump, creating a line with my pen on my paper.

   “Sorry, mind if I come in?” Thomas asks.

   I take a deep breath, then put my journal down. “Sure.”

   He smiles briefly and walks in, sitting down on Chuck’s bed. There’s a few moments of silence, where I pick at my bed sheet and avoid looking at Thomas. It’s awkward, and I’m not in the mood for awkward, so I’m about to pipe up and ask what he came in for when he breaks the silence first.

   “How was therapy?” he asks. I look at him questioningly, but answer.

   “The usual. He told me it’s not normal for me to not want to be away from my parents while they’re going through the most difficult time of their lives because of me. He asked about my foot and tried to get me to talk about how I felt while I was standing in the street,” I say. “Oh, then he put me on yet another medication.”

   I look up in time to watch Thomas’ face drop.

   “He _what_? Did he say what kind of medication?” Thomas asks frantically, pushing himself off of the bed and quickly sitting on mine. He looks like I just told him I have a week to live, and my eyes go wide.

   “No, I didn’t ask and I don’t really care—what’s wrong? Why are you so freaked out?” I ask. His hands have begun shaking now, and he shakes his head too.

   “Did he say when you start it? Did you take it already?” he asks.

   I go to assume this is just an episode of his, but something tells me he’s not being delusional right now. Maybe it’s the clarity in his eyes or genuine alarm in his voice, but it gives me anxiety.

   “No, I start it tomorrow,” I say, and Thomas nods, his breathing rapid. “Tommy, what’s going on? What’s the big deal?”

   “God, okay, okay,” Thomas says, his mind clearly racing.

   “What happened?” My attempts at getting any sort of explanation are completely ignored.

   “Newt, I need you to listen to me,” Thomas says. His gaze is intense and his voice is uneven, and he takes my silence as an invitation to continue. “At five o’clock, meet me in the rec room. I need you to trust me. No matter what, I need you to trust me.”

   I glance at the time. It’s five past four now. What’s going to happen between now and then that’s so important? Why can’t he tell me anything?

   “What are we doing?” I ask hesitantly.

   Thomas shakes his head vigorously. “I don’t have time to explain, you just need to trust me and go along with anything I say or do. Will you do that for me?”

   I don’t have a real reason to trust Thomas. He’s got hallucinations with no known cause, an unpredictable temper, and I don’t really know _anything_ real about him.

   But then again, what have I got to lose?

    _Be careful with Thomas._

  
  
  


My good leg shakes in tens as I watch the clock. I wonder if it would calm me if my heart could beat in tens instead of the erratic way it’s pumping right now.

   Minho is grumbling something to Jeff, Zart is watching TV, and Fry is telling Chuck and Aris a story I’m pretending to listen to. My brain doesn’t even attempt to comprehend any of the words leaving his mouth. It’s got a lot of other things to worry about.

   A normal person wouldn’t be this anxious and stressed out over something that’s most likely not a big deal. I’m not a normal person.

   Finally, after waiting what feels like a million years, Thomas walks in. He doesn’t look me in the eyes until he’s crouching in front of my chair.

   “Yell ‘stop’ and punch or kick me,” Thomas says so quietly I almost think I’m imagining it.

   “What?” I ask, matching his lowness.

   He gives me a warning stare, but mouths the words ‘I’m sorry’. I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

    “ _Stop_!” I yell, before using the foot without the cast to kick Thomas in the stomach. It’s a very weak kick, to make sure I don’t actually hurt him, but he flies back with the intensity of a punch to the gut.

   Thomas screams and launches back at me, but by the time he’s grabbed my shirt and delivered a missed punch to my arm, the nurses are on him and pulling him back. He makes a show of kicking and screaming at me and at them, and it’s all I can watch as I’m being wheeled away by another nurse.

   I don’t know what I just agreed to, but I’m pretty sure I know how this story is ending.

   Solitary.


	30. thirty

It’s been almost two weeks since I was first in solitary, and I didn’t miss this room one bit.

   The whole way there, the overwhelming fear that I’d made a huge mistake in trusting Thomas washed over me. What could getting ourselves put there possibly accomplish? Maybe he _did_ go completely mad, because nothing about this is making sense.

   Being isolated allows my brain to overthink this and everything else happening. I haven’t spoken to my parents since the hospital, so this is the longest I’ve ever gone and it’s slowly driving me crazier than I already am. More than anything else, it’s the fear of not knowing what’s happening and the inability to help. I’ve come to regret running out of the room the day they told me. If I’d have stayed, maybe I could get some answers to the questions that have been nagging at my mind. The only thing I’m sure of is that it’s my fault.

   I stare up at the ceiling, trying to fall asleep. By now, they’ve brought in my dinner and medication—but not the new one—so there’s nothing else for me to do. This room is like a prison, all I can do is look at the clock and try to hold the thin blanket a little closer to my body. The transfers between the bed and my wheelchair have been a bit easier this time because I’m no longer paralyzed from the lack of my tens, but it’s still not great. The nurse I have this time isn’t the kindest, either. No sympathy, no smiles, barely even a word to me. I’m just a delinquent to him.

   Strangely enough, I find myself missing Thomas. I should be angry at him, I should hate him. But that seems pointless. I want to see him so he can explain himself. He always makes sense in an odd way, and I could use that. If he’s even sane right now, that is.

   As I drift off to sleep, I wish away the consequences of today’s actions.

  
  
  


The door opening startles me out of a nightmare, and when I look up, I’m not entirely convinced this isn’t still a dream.

   “You called for the bathroom?”

   Vince is walking over to my wheelchair with a strange smile on his face, and my brain produces too many questions at once to even process what’s happening; especially when I’m still half asleep.

   “How are you here now?” I ask groggily, blinking hard to try to adjust my eyes.

   “Shift change at half past one. Come on, get up,” he says, wheeling my chair over to the side of the bed.

   “I never—” I stop myself. I never called him to go to the bathroom, I was fast asleep. But I think he knows that.

   I’ll take any excuse to leave the room, so I transfer into my wheelchair and Vince lets me stop to put on my shoes. I’m still wearing my clothes from today, so changing seems unnecessary, especially if we’re just going to the bathroom like he said. Maybe he’ll have an explanation, maybe he’ll break the news of how long I’ll be in solitary. No matter what, I could use it.

   But when he takes me into the bathroom, then says nothing the whole time, I start to get confused. He could have imagined me calling for him, sure, but something about this seems unusual.

   I walk—well, waddle—over to the sink after, finish up my tens, then wash my hands. The cold water helps wake me up, and I consider standing there for the ten minutes, but I shouldn’t keep Vince waiting. That’s a choice I let myself make, thankfully. If I have nowhere to be or I’m frustrated or stressed out, I take the ten minutes. But since Vince is standing there, my brain tells me it’s okay to opt for ten seconds instead.

   I sit back down in my chair, and Vince rolls me out of the bathroom. The hallway is eerily quiet, but there are still nurses everywhere. I don’t recognize a lot of them, most likely because they’re the night people. They stand posted outside of doors in the hall, and all eyes are on us. I look down.

   When we reach the solitary section, Vince takes an unexpected right turn down a different hallway. I furrow my eyebrows, looking up at him. But he doesn’t say anything, so I keep my mouth shut, knowing we’re still being watched by every nurse in sight.

   Once we’re down that hall, he takes a left down _another_ hallway that I haven’t even been in. There’s only one other person down here, and I can’t tell if they’re a nurse or a security guard.

   When he spots us, my stomach does a backflip. “The patients are supposed to be in bed,” he says, mostly addressing Vince. His voice is like an explosion in the quiet of the area, making it all the more unsettling.

   “Trust me, I know,” Vince says. “But this kid left something in the crafts room and he wouldn’t go to sleep without it. We’ll just run in and leave through the solitary hallway so I don’t have to bother you again.”

   The man nods, then looks down at me with an untrusting stare. He then looks up at Vince and gives him an obviously forced smile.

   “I have my shift change in a minute, so go ahead,” he says.

   “Have a good night,” Vince says. It kinda freaks me out how easily he lies. It’s like he genuinely believes it himself; so much so that I almost believe him myself, even though I’m the subject of the lie. I’m not _that_ crazy yet—I hope.

   Vince opens the door to what I’m assuming is the crafts room and wheels me in, the whole place dark. I open my mouth to start asking Vince what we’re doing here, but then my eyes adjust to the light.

   All the words that were about to come out are replaced with one. “Thomas?”

   Vince shushes me, but I’m not really paying attention. I reconsider the theory that I’m still asleep—that one of the medications I take is giving me the side effect of super vivid dreams. But at this point, I shouldn’t be surprised that this is reality.

   Thomas is sitting on a table, and he gets down from it once we walk in. He’s holding something I can’t make out, and he looks at me for a moment before turning his attention to Vince.

   “You got his things too, right?” Thomas asks him quietly.

   “I wasn’t born yesterday,” Vince says, Thomas nodding.

   “What’s going on?” I ask.

   “I don’t have time to explain,” Thomas says quickly. “I wanted Chuck here too, but there was no time.”

   “Thomas, I’ve trusted you up to this point, but now you need to tell me what you’re doing,” I say sternly. Blindly following him got me in solitary, so who knows what _this_ will lead to? No, I need real information.

   Thomas takes a deep breath. “I was right. So it’s not safe here, and we need to go. Now.”

   I blink at him. This is too insane, this is too much to ask. He can’t be serious, can he?

   “Be ready,” Vince says, before slipping out the door we came in through.

   My anxiety kicks in now, and I wish I wasn’t in this wheelchair; that I could run away if I wanted to. To where, I don’t know.

   “Why isn’t it safe?” I ask, my voice breaking.

   “I told you, there’s no time to tell you everything,” Thomas says. “What I _can_ tell you is that I can help cure you, and I can save you. But you have to come with me.”

    _Save_ me? From what?

   It’s only now that I notice the tears in his eyes as he looks at me. His glassy eyes shine in the moonlight, and I can see the desperation there. The fear. I know if I say no to him, he won’t take it well. And I don’t want that. As hard as I’m searching for a reason to not go, it seems pointless. I want out of here, and if Thomas is right, and it’s not safe, maybe it would be the right decision.

   “How could we possibly get out of here?” I ask, instead of giving him an answer.

   “Let me worry about that. First, put this over your shirt,” Thomas says, handing me what he was holding before.

   I hold it up, and realize that it’s a black hoodie, maybe a size too big for me. It must be Thomas’. I look at him, about to ask why he gave it to me, but I decide that this is one of the less important things to figure out. While I’m putting the hoodie on, Thomas wheels me over to the side of the room.

   When the hoodie is on, I look up to see what Thomas is doing.

   “You’ve _got_ to be joking,” I say. He’s opening a small window close to the ceiling, and I almost laugh. But he’s one hundred percent serious. “How are we supposed to get through there? How are we supposed to get my _wheelchair_ through there? Besides, aren’t there cameras—”

   “Again, leave that to me. I’m going to help lift you up, and once you get out, stay up against the wall. You got me?” Thomas says.

   I’m so going to regret this.

   I stand, and Thomas bends down. He quickly tells me to be ready and to grab the windowsill, then before I know it, he’s grabbing onto my legs and lifting me up. I almost fall backwards, but my hand holds onto the windowsill like he said, and I pull myself that way. He gives me an extra boost, and I get my elbows out of the window, thankful that I’m on the lankier side so I can fit. There’s ground maybe a foot or two below me, so I don’t mind when the front of me starts falling forward. Thomas doesn’t let go of me until my legs almost completely out of the window, and I do the rest, my cast clunking into the sides of the window and sending a burst of pain through my foot.

   Once I’m out, I count my legs falling onto the grass as two steps, and I stay like that, kneeling up against the wall. I’m trying to ignore the pain, and it’s easy with the adrenaline coursing through me. It’s cold out, so I’m definitely thankful for the hoodie. There’s nobody in sight, which I take as a good sign. Beside me, there’s a little parking lot, most likely for the people that work here. Then, I look up at the wall.

   There’s a camera, but it’s facing the parking lot and not the wall. Also probably a good thing. I put the hood on, trying to conceal my face as much as possible, just in case.

   After a few moments, my wheelchair—folded now—comes poking out of the window. I help pull it out, and set it beside me, leaning it against the wall.

   Then, Thomas. I see his hands on the windowsill, and once the rest of his body starts coming up, I mindlessly take his hands in mine and help him. His grip is strong, so I don’t drop him as he pulls his knees through. When he’s out, he stands, and instead of letting myself think about what to do, I think about how this counts as having taken five steps between all my movement with the window.

   From the corner of my eye, I see someone walking and quickly turn to see who it is. For a second I worry, thinking we’ll be spotted, but it’s just Vince. He’s walking casually, and all I do is watch.

   He stops at a car and gets in, my breaths getting quicker as he starts it. I look up to Thomas, but his attention is laser focused on the car.

   Vince backs up, then circles around the lot. Finally, he stops it where the grass ends, close to us. Before I can ask Thomas what he’s doing, he’s turning to my wheelchair and grabbing it.

   I watch him walk swiftly to the car with it in his hands, open the back door, and put the chair on the seat before turning back to me. Any moment now, I should be coming to my senses. Any moment now, I should be telling Thomas he’s crazy. Any moment now, I should be going back in the building and limping my way back to my room. Any moment now.

   That moment doesn’t come as Thomas walks over to me. That moment doesn’t come when he leans down.

   “Again, sorry,” Thomas whispers.

   He helps me up then holds my waist as I walk. I focus on my steps. _Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten._

   I turn to Thomas, trying to ask him the question with my eyes. Can I snap?

   Thomas seems to get it, his eyes widening. He looks around, then looks at me worriedly. I can’t risk it. I can’t.

   I keep walking until we get to the car, trying to keep counting. When we’re at the car, I’m at six. Thomas gets in, but lies down in front of the seat. Great.

   Following him, I get in, making it eight steps, then close the door behind me. I awkwardly lie on the ground, facing the opposite direction from Thomas, so our legs are tangled together. The awkward positioning counts as the last two steps, so I snap my fingers twenty times, holding my hand up against my shirt to muffle it.

   When Vince starts driving, Thomas hands me yet another soft thing. I look at him, and he takes something and drapes it over himself, including his head—a blanket, I realize. I mirror his movements.

   Nobody talks.

   We slow to a stop after a minute, and I hear the window roll down.

   There’s silence. Then more silence. Then, finally, a “Thank you”.

   The window closes, and we start driving again. More silence.

   “You can come up now,” Vince says.

   I take the blanket off my face as Thomas does the same, and he starts to sit up, perching himself on the seat. He moves the wheelchair so that it’s in front of him, and I sit up, then slide myself up onto the seat. As I’m buckling, Thomas starts laughing.

   “I can’t believe it,” Thomas says in disbelief, shaking his head, his words coming in between laughs.

   The moment comes now.

   Panic settles in, and I start breathing heavy again, the car seemingly spinning around me. I just broke out of a mental hospital. I’ve never even cut _class_ before.

   “Thomas,” I start shakily, “do you realize what we just did? Do you realize how much trouble we’re going to be in when we’re caught?”

   “It’s better than staying, trust me,” Thomas says. “Relax, you’re okay now.”

   “Explain,” I say, on the brink of tears. “Explain to me right now, or I’m getting out of this car and going back.”

   “I was right about everything I thought,” Thomas says. “They killed Winston.”

   This time, I actually _do_ laugh. “How is that?”

   “I was looking in Ava Paige’s office, and—”

   “Hold on, how’d you get into Ava Paige’s office?” I ask.

   “Do you want the story or not?” Thomas asks. I’m silent, so he continues. “In her files, I found something I’d never seen before. It was a letter from WCKD pharmaceuticals, and they were thanking Ava for giving them money. Well, the more I looked, the more I found from them. They’re a new company, and apparently Ava’s working with them. Helping them experiment…”

   He trails off, and my eyes widen. “Using us as guinea pigs?” I ask. Thomas nods. “Wait, so they gave Winston the new drug?”

   “No, actually,” Thomas says. “I checked the records. They didn’t give Winston anything new.”

   His face drops then. There’s clearly something he doesn’t want to say, but it’s too important for me not to know.

   “Then what happened?” I ask. Thomas just looks at me, and I search my brain for an explanation. If they didn’t give it to Winston, then—oh no. “Tommy…”

   “Yeah,” Thomas says, looking away from me now. His jaw is hardened, and I can’t see his eyes, but if I had to guess, I’d say he’s tearing up.

   “It wasn’t your fault,” I offer. “There’s no way you could have known.”

   “I know,” Thomas says quickly. There’s an edge to his voice that I don’t expect, making me flinch. Thomas notices, and looks at me briefly before back out the window. “I just—he deserves justice. And that’s what we’re going to give him. But we can’t do it from in there.”

   “So you’re saying that the new medication was going to poison me?” I ask.

   “Maybe not poison you, but I’m not risking anything happening to you,” Thomas says, meeting my eyes fully now. How much of this was for me? Does he really care that much about me, a boy he just met? One look at him, and I want to believe it. He sounds too sincere.

   “Is anyone else in danger?” I ask. The realization that Thomas could have died from the medication that was meant for him dawns on me. I feel so bad for Thomas, having to live with the knowledge that someone—let alone a good friend—suffered the bullet he dodged. I can’t even imagine that.

   Thomas shakes his head slightly. “I checked the rest of the Normals’ records, nobody else is getting a new medication any time soon.”

   “How did you find all of this out? How can you possibly have access to that?” It’s scaring me how much information he has on everyone, and it reminds me of the way he told me everything about the Normals. It sounded like _he_ was their therapist.

   “Vince helps me when I need it,” Thomas says. “He doesn’t like the place either, so he helps me get around.”

   Vince, who’s been surprisingly quiet, decides to speak now. “I never liked Janson or Ava Paige.”

   A million questions for Vince come to mind, but I don’t want to grill him right now. Especially not while he’s driving.

   “What’s the plan then?” I ask, figuring the question is broad enough to get some of the answers I need.

   “We’ll start tomorrow, we need to see Winston’s mother,” Thomas says. He looks behind himself, out the back window, then turns back to me. “They’ll notice that we’re gone soon.”

   “Why couldn’t one of us just call my parents and have them take me out?” I ask. That would have saved a lot of hassle.

   “A few reasons. One being we didn’t have time, another that I couldn’t come with you, and another being that we’d have no way to expose Ava Paige. Also, you don’t seem like you want to be with your parents right now anyway,” Thomas says. He’s really thought this through, apparently.

   “You said you can help cure me—how?” I ask. I’m aware that I’m talking too much, but it’s the only thing that keeps me from freaking out.

   “I don’t think you want to have that conversation right now,” Thomas says after a moment. “I’ll tell you at the hotel.”

   “Okay,” I say. Then, I play his words back over in my head and actually realize what he said. “Wait, _hotel_?”


	31. thirty one

The hotel is a run down looking place with only two or three letters on the sign still glowing, sitting between two dilapidated buildings. I’ve never been down this way, and I have no clue where we even are anymore, but Vince seemed to know where he was going.

   He pulls up, and I look at Thomas. He’s been filling me in on some things I should know—when we’re not being silent or I’m not having bad anxiety, that is—during the drive. Things like how Vince got stuff from my room that he thought I’d need, and even checked out some of my things that they keep in the nurse’s station. I said that it would give Vince away immediately, but they swear they’ve got it covered.

   “Is this place even safe?” I ask.

   “Better than TIMI, that’s for sure,” Thomas says, before leaning forward towards the front seat. “Thanks again, Vince.”

   “Don’t thank me yet, I’m throwing you under the bus if I get in trouble for this,” Vince says.

   Thomas surprisingly laughs at this, despite the serious tone Vince had. “Keep in touch, right?”

   “Yeah,” Vince nods. Thomas gets out of the car before Vince even finishes the word, and he turns to me when I speak.

   “Wait, you’re not coming with us?” I ask.

   Vince shakes his head. “No way, this is as far as I agreed to go. Besides, I have work to do from the inside. You kids are on your own from here.”

   For some reason, his words scare me. It’s one thing to have a nurse with you, but to be completely alone in a scary looking neighborhood without even knowing the _plan_?

   My door opens, startling me, and Thomas is standing there. “Newt, pass me your wheelchair if you can,” he says. He sounds so nonchalant, like he does this every day. Every second I feel like he’ll snap for sure, but he doesn’t.

   I help him get the chair out of the car, then he helps me into it, holding my hand tight so I keep my balance. At two steps, I’m in, and he waits for me to finish the round of ten as he closes the door. Once I do, he wheels me to the back of the car and opens the trunk, grabbing two big suitcases.

   “I can hold them,” I offer.

   Thomas frowns. “I think I can do it,” he says, closing the trunk. Both of us watch as the car drives away, leaving the two of us alone in a parking lot at nearly three in the morning.

   I look at my lap while I hear Thomas fuss with the suitcases for a minute, before he eventually stops.

   “Give up?” I ask, my fingers playing with the bottom of my hoodie to try to distract myself.

   “Just this once,” Thomas says, handing me my suitcase. I lay it across my lap, and reach for the other one, but Thomas shakes his head. “I’m only letting you hold yours, mine has a handle.”

   The handle proves itself useless about thirty seconds later when he starts pushing me and all I hear is the sound of plastic wheels skidding and a lot of fumbling.

   “Done yet?” I ask, not being able to help the small smile that appears on my lips. Maybe it’s just my nerves, but his stubbornness is a welcome distraction from freaking out.

   “I’ll only let you hold it because you’re insisting,” Thomas says, handing me his bag. It comes so far up that I can rest my chin on top of it as Thomas continues on towards the entrance.

   The inside isn’t exactly what I thought it would be. It’s a lot cleaner than expected, and while I wouldn’t describe it as particularly _nice_ , it doesn’t feel like if I stay here I won’t survive to see tomorrow. That’s definitely better than nothing.

   Thomas wheels us to the front desk, then steps next to me, addressing the bored and tired looking man standing behind it. “Hello, Sir, I’m here to check in,” he says with a kind smile. I almost laugh at his manners; it all seems so ridiculous considering we just broke out of a mental institution.

   “Did you book ahead of time?” the man asks.

   “Yes, actually. My name is Ned,” he says.

    _Now_ I let out a small laugh that I have to fight to conceal, burying my face behind Thomas’ luggage. It’s absolutely insane to be laughing, but it’s super late and I’m nervous and apparently I can’t help it. I’m worried for a moment that Thomas will notice and be angry that I could be blowing his cover, but he looks down at me and his smile changes. Not to something bad, but something different. More sincere.

   “You have the money?” the man asks.

   Thomas reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few bills, handing them to the man. I want to ask where he got the money, but now is definitely not the ideal time to do so.

   The man gives Thomas keys, and he nods a thank you before getting back behind the wheelchair and pushing me to the right, down a hallway. Then, we turn left and go down another, and after a few doors he stops, taking the key and opening room thirty four.

   He wheels me in, closes the door behind us, and then walks back in front of me.

   “Thanks, Ned,” I say deadpanned. But when Thomas starts laughing, I break into a grin.

   “I totally look like a Ned,” Thomas says, taking the suitcases off my lap as I laugh.

   “You _so_ don’t look like a Ned,” I say. “Where’d you even get that from?”

   “It’s what I always use,” Thomas says, shrugging. “This isn’t my first rodeo, you know.”

   “What do you mean?” I ask.

   Thomas walks over to the bed—wait, he got a room with only _one_ bed? He sits down on the edge of it as it hits me. I look around. One bed, something I assume is a bathroom, and a small television that looks like it hasn’t been new in twenty years. There’s also a lamp, a nightstand, and fuzzy carpeting straight out of the seventies. Needless to say, it’s not magnificent.

   He chuckles, grabbing my attention. “Sorry I couldn’t afford a nicer room, I’m not entirely sure how long we’re staying.”

   “Have you done this before?” I ask after a moment. If I’m going to trust him, he has to be completely straight with me.

   He looks at me, and for the first time I see him hesitate, the smile disappearing. “It’s a lot to explain.”

   “I’m pretty sure it’s just a yes or no question,” I say. “Look around us, you don’t have the right to keep anything from me anymore.”

   He takes a deep breath. “Do you want to sit on the bed?”

   Maybe he’s stalling, but I _am_ kinda tired of this chair. “Yeah.”

   Thomas gets up and walks over to my wheelchair, bringing me over to the bed. He helps me up, and I count it as two steps, so he sits back on the bed, seemingly zoned out as I complete my ten steps then sit on the bed next to him. As I snap my fingers, he talks.

   “They didn’t know what medication I should be on, it was a long time ago. So I wasn’t really in the best condition, and one day I saw an opportunity and I took it. I didn’t get far, but I definitely learned from my mistakes. It landed me in solitary for a while, and that’s how I met—”

   “Vince,” I complete for him. Thomas nods. The story Vince told me about meeting Thomas makes a lot of sense now, but the amount of time he’s supposedly spent there… it’s horrible.

   “Exactly,” Thomas says. “He was the nicest person there, so I started talking to him about my theories. I’d even get myself into solitary just to talk to him.”

   “Hold on,” I say. “When you freaked out in group, was that to talk to Vince?”

   Thomas’ smile appears again. “Bingo.”

   I let myself process the information. He’s been thinking about this for a while now. That night in the bathroom, when he said he would get me out, _this_ must have been what he meant.

   “So what’re we going to do?” I ask.

   “Like I said, we’re going to see Winston’s mother. She needs to know what we know,” Thomas says. “Ava Paige needs to be exposed for what she is. I’m not letting anything happen to anyone else.”

   As crazy as all of this is, he’s right. I’m not usually one to stir the pot—mostly I’m the one that _stops_ the stirring. But if people’s lives are at stake, how could I sit and watch? This is bigger than me now, and something about that is electrifying.

   “Okay,” I say. “I’m in.”

   It would have gone without saying, especially since I don’t necessarily have a way _not_ to be in. But still, it makes Thomas’ eyes light up.

   “We’re doing something important, you know,” Thomas says. “You won’t regret it.”

   “I certainly hope not,” I say, only partially teasing.

   Thomas looks to the nightstand, then picks up the small black remote sitting on top of it, inspecting it before turning back to me. “Wanna watch something?”

   There’s a clock on the nightstand too, showing me that it’s ten past three now. I’m not used to staying up, I’m usually asleep before midnight. The only thing that’s been keeping me awake is adrenaline, despite the sleeping pill I take. I should probably get to sleep, but my brain is still going a mile a minute, and I still have questions.

   “Not yet,” I say. “You said you’re better than Janson, right? That you can fix me? Because if there was ever a time for that, it’s now.”

   “I thought you said you don’t believe it’s psychological,” Thomas says with a smirk.

   I give him a halfhearted glare. “I don’t, but if you said you’ve figured it out, why wouldn’t I listen?”

   “Fair point.” Thomas nods.

   “So?” I ask. “Why did you ask me to tell you about Alby?”

   Thomas’ expression gets serious, but there’s something in his eyes that makes his face look forced. Like the seriousness is an act, and whatever he’s truly feeling is being masked. He shifts his body towards me, and we’re back to that soul-reaching eye contact.

   “Are you sure you want to talk about this now?” he asks.

   “I’ve waited long enough,” I say, almost laughing out of nerves again. “You kinda left me hanging.”

   “Alright…” Thomas trails off. “How you felt when Alby was with Teresa, did it scare you?”

   “What does that have to do with anything?” I ask quickly.

   Thomas doesn’t look surprised at my snippiness. “Just hear me out. Did you feel in any way… envious?”

   “What? Do you think I like Teresa? No, I didn’t, I wasn’t jealous,” I say. If this is his whole theory, then maybe he’s not as smart as he thinks he is after all. He wouldn’t be the first to think he’s gotten me figured out.

   “That’s not what I mean, Newt,” Thomas says, shaking his head. “You’ve made it clear you don’t like Teresa. But you were upset, right? It’s normal to be upset about potentially losing a friend, but the way you reacted… didn’t it feel different?”

   “What’re you saying?” I ask, worriedly furrowing my eyebrows. My heart is hammering in my chest.

   “What if you and Alby viewed your relationship differently?” Thomas asks.

   “What’re you saying?” I repeat, almost overlapping Thomas. My face is on fire, and the anxiety comes on so hard that I can feel myself shaking all over. I ask, but I don’t know if I want him to continue.

   “I’m saying that maybe your feelings for Alby were deeper than you thought,” Thomas says. “I’m saying that maybe you saw him as more than a friend.”

   I don’t let myself hear his last words. They’re drowned out in the ringing in my ears. I get up and my subconscious counts for me, my breathing getting heavier for every limping step I take towards the door.

   “Newt,” Thomas calls out, but I don’t want to hear him right now. I don’t want to see him right now.

   I pass my wheelchair and make it to the door in eight steps, opening it and using my last two steps to leave, then close it. As I snap my fingers, I feel my eyes stinging, my hands feeling too numb to carry out their actions.

   He didn’t need to say anymore. I know what Thomas was implying.

   I can’t seem to catch my breath, and everything feels _wrong_. I feel exposed, like I’m on display for the world to see. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be anywhere.

   The worst part is that I have no idea why I’m reacting this way. If Thomas is wrong, couldn’t I have just said he was wrong? Why couldn’t I tell him he was wrong? Why won’t I let myself even think about what he’s suggesting?

   Alby’s face is in my mind, and it makes me feel even sicker than before. _It’s not like that._ It’s like he’s screaming the words to me. Only now, they take on a different meaning.

   A tear falls, and I shake my head ten times, trying to shake away the thoughts, the fear; all of it. This can’t be happening. I have enough happening, this can’t be added on. I can’t deal with this.

   I don’t let myself think about the possibilities. What if he’s right? How would my parents react? Why would it be such a big deal?

    _No_. I can’t go down that road, not now. Logic doesn’t have any place in my anxiety. I want to march back in the room. I want to tell Thomas that he’s got me all wrong, that there’s nothing to his theory. He doesn’t know me at all.

   I turn to do that as the door opens. Thomas looks at me, and I wipe my tears away on the back of my hand quickly, fully knowing that it’s too late and he already saw.

   His expression no longer the almost fake one from before. He looks genuine this time, but genuinely _what_ , I don’t know.

   “I don’t—” I cut myself off, not having even thought of anything to say yet. _You’re wrong. You’re wrong._

   “Newt…” Thomas says, taking another step to me. I don’t move.

   And then he kisses me.

   One of his hands is on my waist and the other on my cheek, but I can barely feel them. My eyes squeeze close.

   Nothing in me protests for more than a split second. A split second where shock goes through my body, and I can’t respond. Just a split second.

   Thomas asked me once if I’d have to kiss someone ten times or for ten minutes. But right now, my tens are the furthest thing from my mind.

   I don’t know how I feel—I don’t know how _this_ feels. It doesn’t feel bad. The amount it doesn’t feel bad scares me, but the scariness melts away into Thomas. Every thought I just had seems to vanish into thin air, like they were never there.

   Am I even doing this right? I’ve never done this before, but… it _feels_ like I’m doing it right. It feels like _he’s_ doing this right. This is right, this feels _right_.

_This feels right. This feels right. This feels right._

   Thomas’ hand slides to the back of my neck, bringing my face closer and tilting my head. I let him. Everything is soft and new. My hand comes up to to his chest, and I almost expect myself to push him off of me. But I don’t.

   Just a few moments. Those mere seconds. Everything had shifted to a different gear, and nothing needed to be figured out.

   Then he pulls away. I keep my eyes closed a little longer. When they open, the sight of him keeps me there for a moment.

   “You didn’t push me away,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

   It’s a simple observation; one I already knew—and yet it brings everything crashing back down.

   He must see my change in expression, because he opens the door and guides me back in, my tens coming back into main focus.

   When I’m on the bed, I can’t bring myself to look at him as I snap my fingers shakily. He doesn’t sit next to me again, instead standing a couple feet away.

   “Talk to me when you’re ready,” Thomas says.

   “Why?” I start, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Why would that help me? Why would that cure my OCD, why would that help my anxiety, what would that have to do with _anything_?”

   “Because, Newt, repressing things isn’t good for you,” Thomas says.

   “How do you know you’re even right?” I snap, looking up at him. “How do you know this is something I was repressing?”

   “Newt, when you found Alby and Teresa on your bed, how did you feel?” Thomas asks, raising his eyebrows.

   “I-I don’t… I don’t know anymore,” I say, the franticness in my tone wavering.

   “Well, think about it,” Thomas says. “That was the first time you got that bad. You just didn’t know why.”

   “So you’re saying what? That I was—” I can’t bring myself to say it. The words physically do not want to leave my mouth. I have to close my eyes to voice them. It doesn’t feel like my voice. It doesn’t feel like my words. “That I liked Alby?”

   “That’s what _I_ think,” Thomas says. “I think it scared you, and you didn’t want to feel it. But you can’t control that, so you controlled other things.”

   “Why wouldn’t I have realized that?” I ask, the words coming out as I try to let his sink in.

   “I think subconsciously you did, but since Alby was your best friend, you wrote it off as just caring for him really strongly in a platonic way. You didn’t need to give it a label, because you already had him. Am I right?” Thomas asks. Everything he says feels like the emotional equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. Everything hits too close.

   And there it is again. That look on his face, the mask. This time I can recognize the emotion behind it. Giddiness.

   “So I’m just a bloody game, then?” I ask. “You just wanted to figure me out before Janson could?”

   Those few words, and the glint of happiness in his expression diminishes into hurt.

   “Can I sit down?” Thomas asks. I don’t answer him, so he sits on the bed next to me, putting as much distance between us as the mattress will allow. “You’re not a game, Newt.”

   “Oh really?” I ask. The strength has mostly gone from my voice. “It seems like that’s what everyone else is, too. You just want to see if you can figure out what’s wrong with us.”

   After a moment of silence, Thomas speaks. “I told you that I wanted to help you figure out what was going on in your head, but you’re not a game to me.”

   “How’s that not a game?” I ask.

   “Because I like seeing you. I like hearing what you have to say, I like knowing you. I like helping you, and I want to see you happy because I know you can get there, and you being happy would make me happy too,” Thomas says. I can’t find an ounce of insincerity in his voice.

   “Why did you…” I really don’t want to ask the question, but I know I have to. “Why did you kiss me?”

   “To help you figure out if I was right or not,” Thomas says. “And because I wanted to.”

   There it is again, that feeling of floating above myself.

   “You did?” I say, forcing my mouth to catch up with my brain.

   “I did,” Thomas says.

   This is too much information to process. I can’t take all of this in at once, so I change the topic. “How will this help my OCD?”

   “We’ll take it one step at a time,” Thomas says, my breath hitching when he says _we_. “But first you need to know that it’s okay. It’s okay to be who you are, and there’s nothing wrong with it.”

   My anxiety comes back kicking. I know that there would be nothing wrong with it. But at the same time, the reality scares me.

   “Are your parents accepting?” Thomas asks. I don’t know the answer. I want to say ‘yes’, I want to say ‘maybe’, but I don’t know. My mother probably would be, but I don’t know about my father. Not that it makes a difference anymore. He hates me anyway. “You know what? Forget I asked that.”

   My parents are getting divorced because of me. Now what? On top of being depressed, anxious and having OCD, I have _this_ to tell them?

   “So you’re saying that I’m gay?”

   It doesn’t even feel real saying those words. I can’t tell if it feels like a revelation or something I’m afraid of.

   “Well, do you like girls?” Thomas asks. A simple question, but I don’t know if I have an answer.

   I had crushes on girls growing up, but none recently. Girls were just never my main focus, dating in general wasn’t something I thought about. I think about Teresa. She’s a beautiful girl. Could I ever see myself kissing her? _Marrying_ her?

   The answer is on the tip of my tongue before I even know it. “No,” I say. I take a shaky breath before adding, “I don’t think so.”

   “Okay, then,” Thomas says, a small smile appearing. “It’s as simple as that, really. I like guys and girls. When I discovered that, it didn’t change who I am. I just understood it more.”

   That makes sense to me, but this is still terrifying. I want to say that kissing him felt right and ask him what that means. But I think I already know.

   “I’m scared, Tommy,” I say softly, because it’s true and because I can’t think of anything else to say.

   “I know,” Thomas says. “We’ll figure it out together, okay?”

   “Okay,” I agree. Thomas smiles.

  
  
  


Each of us take turns in the bathroom—me going second because I take the ten minutes to wash my hands—and we look through our suitcases. Vince packed a lot of my clothes, plus some of the other smaller things I’d brought there, including my phone. I turn it on to find no new texts, but Thomas gives me his and Vince’s numbers. My journal is also in the suitcase, along with my mental institution approved pen.

   While I was in the bathroom, I realized that I still have Thomas’ hoodie on. For some reason, it feels completely different now. But I keep it on.

   When we get into bed, he offers to sleep on the floor and I tell him not to. He lets me pick a side of the bed, and I pick the side closest to the door and the bathroom.

   It’s not exactly a small bed, but it seems small when the both of us are in it. No matter how I shift, I feel like I might as well just be on top of him. He doesn’t seem as conscious as I do, but I can tell he’s trying not to get too close.

   I don’t know what will come of tomorrow. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know what I’m even doing. Everything has changed in the span of one night, and there’s absolutely no coming back from it.

    _And because I wanted to._ Those are the last words that ring through my head before I fall asleep.


	32. thirty two

I kissed a _boy_.

   It’s my first thought when my mind regains consciousnesses. Before my eyes even open, it’s there, and my day starts off with a fresh dosage of anxiety. It doesn’t help when I start replaying the night over again.

   I’m sprawled out on the bed, and it takes me a moment to remember that someone else should be there. I fell asleep next to Thomas, didn’t I?

   I finally open my eyes, and my anxiety starts to settle a little bit when I see Thomas sitting at the end of the bed. His back is turned, and he’s presumably watching the TV. He’s also wearing different clothes, so he’s probably been awake far longer than I have. That’s slightly embarrassing for some reason, but I’m too tired to think about that.

   When I sit up, Thomas turns around with a soft smile.

   “Hi,” he says. “I was just about to wake you, actually. How’re you feeling?”

   Scared? Anxious? Tired? “Okay,” I say. I turn to my left to see the time, and it’s nearly ten o’clock.

   “I’ve got our medication in my bag,” Thomas says, hopping up from the bed. “Do you want to take it now?”

   “Um,” I start, my brain still foggy from sleep. “Yeah, let me just… get ready first.”

   “Sure, sure,” Thomas says, nodding. He seems oddly peppy. “Can I get anything for you? I can walk or wheel you to the bathroom, too.”

   “I’m alright, thank you,” I say, reaching up and rubbing my eyes. This is later than I can normally sleep in, but I was also up impossibly late.

   I scoot myself to the side of the bed, then look at my suitcase. It’s _so_ far across the room. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could just get up, walk over to it, then go get dressed like a normal person? I’ve got my tens and a broken ankle standing in the way of that.

   As if Thomas heard my thoughts, he picks up my suitcase and puts it on the bed next to me before I have the chance to protest. I give him a small gracious smile, then look through my things, picking out clothes. Jeans and a blue long sleeved shirt, something I haven’t worn at TIMI.

   I get up and count my steps as I get into the bathroom, holding my outfit. I’m in there at six steps, then turn to close the door, making it seven. When I turn and look in the mirror, it’s eight.

   For some reason, I look different. I can’t put my finger on anything specific, but I seem… older? Same brown eyes, same blonde hair. I’m tired, so my cheeks are rosy from sleep and my eyelids are droopy. But that’s not what it is—I _feel_ different too.

   Once I get out of the bathroom, holding my old clothes, Thomas looks up at me. He’s sitting on the bed with two little containers on his lap.

   “You can keep that if you want to,” Thomas says. I frown in confusion, so he clarifies. “The hoodie, I mean. You can keep it.”

   “Oh,” I say, my blush turning into one of embarrassment. After last night, the offer sends my brain into overdrive. Does that mean something, or is it just a kind gesture? “I couldn’t, um—”

   “Don’t worry about it, I insist. Now come sit down before I start thinking that the hoodie is green,” Thomas says, chuckling and nodding to the spot next to him on the bed. How he can make light of something so serious baffles me, but I know that humor is a common coping mechanism.

   I’m on seven. That’s important to remember. I make it to the bed in three steps, then sit down, snapping my fingers to drown out the nagging thoughts about the hoodie that I place in my suitcase now.

   Thomas opens one of the containers and hands me a small cup of medication, just like how they’d give us at TIMI.

   “Now, do you know what your pills look like? One of these might be the new one, so you’re going to need to figure out what it is and if anything is missing,” Thomas says.

   My eyes widen. I think I know what all of them look like, but the prospect of what could happen if I mess up is horrifying. One by one, I look at them. I recognize most of them instantly, and then by the time I’m done counting, I’m relieved to see that nothing is missing. But, something has been added.

   The one I don’t recognize is a small white pill with numbers on its shell. I pick it out, showing Thomas. “This is new. Everything else is normal,” I say.

   Thomas grins. “Perfect!” He hands me a water bottle and I start taking my pills, watching him while doing so. He looks through his—and there are a _few_ —and takes about three out, downing them all at the same time.

   “Why don’t you take them all?” I ask, finishing mine up.

   “I hate some of them. I still don’t think they’re right, but they never listen to me. So I always just choose my own,” Thomas says, putting the lid back on his container before taking mine too. When I met Thomas, his inability to cooperate by skipping some of his medication was something that bothered me. But now that I know what could have happened if he _did_ take it, I’m glad he broke the rules. Right now, that’s keeping _both_ of us alive.

   I grab my phone from the nightstand and turn it on as Thomas gets off of the bed. This time, instead of the blank notification screen I got last night, there’s a thousand missed calls and texts from my parents. I scroll through them quickly, dread mixed with anxiety hitting me full force. A few of the texts catch my eye—most of them being from my mother—but I can’t bring myself to read them. It’s absolutely horrifying.

   “What’s wrong?” Thomas’ voice sounds from in front of me. It takes me a moment to answer, my mind being consumed with guilt and fear.

   “My parents,” I choke out. “They know I’m gone.”

   Thomas doesn’t seem at all surprised at this when I turn off my phone to look at him. “Oh, yeah, they’ll have told them by now. That reminds me, can I see your phone real quick?”

   I hand him my phone, not putting too much thought in the action. Part of me wants to call them; let them know that I’m alright and apologize for all the trouble I’ve caused them. It’s a lot more than I’m worth.

   Thomas hands me my phone back, and I finally fully comprehend that he even had it in the first place. “What’d you do?”

   “I turned off the things that can give away your location immediately, but there’ll be other ways to find us. I’d say it’s best to just ditch your phone somewhere for a while. We can get you a burner for now,” Thomas says. His tone is a bit too casual, but I’m not surprised about that anymore.

   “What about _your_ phone?” I ask.

   “Mine already _is_ a burner. There hasn’t been much of a reason for me to have my own phone lately, so I had Vince pick this one up,” Thomas says, giving me a smile and waving his phone.

   Anger courses through me. At what, I don’t know. Most likely at my situation—being an anxiety and OCD ridden runaway with worried parents and a nearly impossible mission. It’s not really about Thomas, but he’s here, so that’s who the anger comes out on.

   “Why can’t I talk to them?” I ask, trying to keep my voice level enough at first, but I don’t think I do a very good job. “Let them know I’m okay?”

   “I mean, you could. But think about it, what would really happen? They’d know you were fine, but they’d track you and find you right away and probably put you right back in there. Either way, I don’t think it’s really what you want,” Thomas says.

   “Oh yeah, that’s right, I forgot that you’re the expert when it comes to what I want and what I think,” I say sharply. _Where did that come from?_ My eyes are stinging, but I do my best to ignore it.

   Thomas wasn’t unaffected by my words as half of me expected him to be. Something in his eyes changes, and I regret saying what I said. Suddenly, I’m afraid. I don’t know as much about Thomas as it feels like I do, what if he does something drastic? There are no nurses to stop him, and how could I?

   “I’ll be right back,” Thomas says, his eyes avoiding mine and his tone eerily flat. I start to protest, but before I can get a word out, Thomas has left the room.

  
  
  


I’m not entirely sure how long I’m in the room alone. It couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes, but for someone in the middle of a breakdown, it feels like a year. I consider chasing after Thomas to make sure he’s okay, but every time I think about it, I get hit with a wave of feeling like I never want to move again. It’s that horrible lack of motivation that keeps me glued to the side of the bed, unwilling to even look at my phone again.

   But eventually, he walks back in the room with a pleasant smile.

   “I called a car, it should be here in a few minutes. We’ll get you a burner, get our car, find a place for your phone, then go get breakfast and go to Winston’s house. When we’re closer to there, you can call your parents from a payphone to let them know you’re okay if you really need to. Sound good?” Thomas says it all like we’ve been talking about the plan for days.

   I gape at him. “Um… yeah,” I agree, figuring it’s the best option. Did he completely forget what I said, or is he choosing to ignore it? Why was he gone so long?

   “Great,” Thomas says, wheeling my chair over to me.

   I get in, and Thomas waits while I do my tens, trying hard to focus on them. Asking him why he’s suddenly so calm seems like a bad idea, that’s for sure.

   He wheels me out of the room, locking the door behind us. I put my phone in my pocket, and I can feel it burning a hole there. It feels like touching it will set off an explosion. I didn’t even think about the fact that we could be tracked until Thomas brought it up, so until we get rid of it, my paranoia level will be high.

   On the way out of the building, I tap my foot in tens against the footrest.

  
  
  


The car is an overall unpleasant experience. Thomas has a really hard time getting the wheelchair in the trunk, which is extremely embarrassing for me. Then, when he finally gets in the car, the driver already sounds done with us and has no patience for Thomas’ odd explanation of where we want to go. The drive to the nearest convenience store is silent, and most of it is spent trying not to throw up from my nerves and the horrible scent.

   When we’re finally there, Thomas hops out of the car practically before the driver can even fully stop. Apparently the ride wasn’t enjoyable for him either. He grabs my wheelchair and brings it to me, then we head into the store together, Thomas telling the driver to wait for us.

   Thomas takes care of the talking in the store, and also pays for the phone and I tell him he doesn’t have to—even though I don’t actually have any money on me. The woman behind the counter doesn’t seem phased by the request for a burner phone, so I take that as a good sign.

   Once we leave the store and get back in the car, Thomas gives the driver a very specific address and we set off. I want to ask him where it is we’re going, but in the silence of the car, I’d rather just wait. Thomas is on his phone for some of the drive, but I just look forward and try to keep my anxiety at bay.

   Eventually, we pull into a big lot and get out of the car, Thomas thanking the driver and paying him. It takes us a minute to get me into my wheelchair, and I only speak once the car has pulled away and I’ve finished my tens.

   “May I ask where we are?” I ask, looking up at Thomas as he starts pushing me.

   “Somewhere better than that car,” Thomas says. After a few seconds of confusion, I notice we’re approaching a car. At first I don’t recognize it, but then it hits me.

   “Is that Vince’s car?” I ask.

   “Affirmative. He has two, and he’s letting us borrow this one. It’s kinda like our getaway car,” Thomas says brightly.

   “Who’s driving?” I ask, as we stop.

   “Well, you have a broken ankle, so definitely not you,” Thomas says, opening the passenger door. He helps me in, then puts the wheelchair in the backseat before getting into the driver’s seat.

   “Why didn’t Vince just leave the car at the hotel?” I ask.

   “He had no way to get back, he left it here because he’s got a friend nearby,” Thomas says, buckling himself.

   “Do you even know how to drive?” I ask.

   “There’s a first time for everything!” Thomas says, turning to me with a grin. When he sees the horror on my face, he laughs. “I know how to drive. I’m fine, I’m on the medication I need.”

   With that, and a whole lot of trust from me, we’re off.

  
  
  


The Candle Diner isn’t very crowded when we arrive. At this point, we’ve successfully hidden—meaning buried—my phone by the side of a building, and made it to the diner with only a few driving scares. “Sorry, I’m a little rusty,” Thomas had said. But we made it here in one piece, if you don’t count my unrelated injury.

   We’re seated immediately, and my eyes dart around the place, irrationally expecting my parents or Ava Paige to show up. But no, it’s just us and a select few elderly couples. My eyes drift up to see a TV with the news on, and a new fear creeps in.

   “Are we going to be on the news?” I ask. If we are, then the option to go anywhere public is automatically eliminated.

   “No,” Thomas says with a frown, “I don’t think so. Especially not from TIMI, since we’re minors and they’re already about to get bad press.”

   I distract myself from worrying by attempting to read the menu, but nothing looks even remotely appetizing. My brain knows that I _have_ to eat though, so I pick pancakes with a bowl of fruit. It seems easiest to stomach.

   I shakily give the waitress my order when she arrives, and Thomas orders while I try to sip the water she brought us.

   “What do you think they’re doing right now?” I ask Thomas, once the waitress is gone. “The Normals, Janson and Ava Paige, all of them?”

   “I can imagine they all know by now. Chuck is probably worried, Minho is probably impressed but angry that we didn’t take him with us. Ava Paige and Janson are probably stressed beyond belief, which is really fun to think about,” Thomas says.

   “Why do you seem so calm about this?” I ask. If he doesn’t realize the scope of what we’re doing, I’m afraid to be the one to break it to him.

   “Because I know that we’re doing what’s right,” Thomas says. “It’s scary, sure, but we’re doing something that’ll help people.”

   I want to believe him.

   The waitress brings out our food a few minutes later, and I cannot believe the mountain in front of Thomas. There’s pancakes, bacon, eggs, sausages— _everything_.

   “What is _that_?” I ask, my eyes widening.

   “Breakfast,” Thomas says simply.

   “For the whole town?” I ask, making him laugh.

   “They don’t feed me enough at TIMI,” Thomas says. “I’m gonna take this opportunity while I have it.”

   I have so many questions for Thomas. They’re all on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be asked. I’ve never been so intrigued by a person in my life, and the fact that I’ve put so much trust into him is baffling considering I haven’t got much back information-wise. I know that him, his mother and his sister ran from an abusive father. I know that he attempted to run from TIMI once, and has been there for a long time. I know that he hallucinates but doesn’t know exactly what he has. What else?

   There’s a slight wall of tension between us, but I can’t tell if it’s from our current situation, the events of last night, or even what happened this morning. Maybe all of it. Either way, it could be completely one-sided.

   As we eat, my eyes keep drifting up to Thomas when he’s not looking. I don’t want to think about it, but last night keeps flashing in my mind. His face when he saw me in the hallway. When my eyes scan his face and find their way down to his lips, I immediately look away and am no longer hungry. I have no time for this right now—though he would probably disagree.

   “Do you know where Winston’s house is?” I ask, looking for a distraction from my thoughts.

   “Of course, it’s not too far from here,” Thomas says. There isn’t much food left on his plate now. “Are you finished?”

   Thomas pays for our meals and we leave the diner, my stomach in knots thinking about our next stop.

   “What will you say?” I ask, once Thomas gets in the car from putting my wheelchair away.

   He takes a breath, then turns the car on. “The truth. She needs to know.”

  
  
  


Thomas wasn’t joking when he said the house wasn’t far, because it only takes a few minutes of Thomas’ questionable driving to get there. I was almost hoping it would be longer, because I’m absolutely dreading going in. It feels like walking into class when there’s a test you know you didn’t study for. Impending doom.

   “You’re sure you want to do this?” I ask. If Thomas suddenly decided right now to turn around and never look back, I wouldn’t object.

   “Positive. Let’s go,” Thomas says, hopping out of the car.

   We parked a little ways down the street, so once I’m in my wheelchair, there’s still a small walk involved. As we get closer, Winston’s driveway seems to stretch a million miles long. His house is quite large, and it adds to the intimidating factor. There’s a garden out front, but as we get closer to the front door, I see that the plants all look withered and untended to.

   This is a beautiful house with a broken family inside. If Thomas is right, and they can get justice for their son, could we possibly help them heal?

   Thomas knocks on the door, and I hold my breath. I count the seconds. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. The door knob is moving. My heart is in my stomach.

   A man answers the door. He only glances at me, but he looks at Thomas. The standing one, the one not in a wheelchair. I can imagine that would be annoying in any other situation, but right now, I don’t want to be the one with the attention.

   “Hello, Sir, is Mrs. Flores around?” Thomas asks politely.

   The man narrows his eyes. Just like the house, he looks put together at first glance. But looking closer, his tie is done wrong, his hair is graying on the sides, and he looks utterly tired.

   “Are you one of Winston’s friends?” he asks.

   “I am, and I was told to see Mrs. Flores with any information I have,” Thomas says.

   Another quick look down at me. Then back to Thomas again.

   “Come in.”

   The inside of the house has a somber atmosphere that you can immediately feel in the air. There’s a staircase at the entrance, and rooms on either side. We’re guided into what I’m assuming is the living room, and I notice the crosses hung on the walls. Definitely a religious family.

   In the corner of the room, there’s a little table set up with candles, another cross, and in the middle, a picture of Winston. It makes me feel even sicker than I already was.

   “Marie, there are people here to see you,” the man raises his voice to call upstairs, then turns to address us again. “I’m Mr. Flores. You can just sit—” He looks at me, then shakes his head. “I mean—”

   “We will, thank you,” Thomas says from behind me. Mr. Flores gives us one more nod, before leaving us and going upstairs. There’s two chairs and a couch, which Thomas wheels me over to now. He walks in front to face me, then looks down at the couch. “Do you want to sit on the couch, or stay in the chair?”

   Figuring it would be weird to stay in the chair, I begin to stand and Thomas helps me onto the couch. Two steps to get on, then eight taps of my feet while Thomas is sitting down next to me. By the time I start my ten snaps, there are footsteps coming down the stairs.

   I turn to face the source of the noise while I finish up, and see Mrs. Flores walking down the stairs and eyeing us carefully. She looks weaker than the last time I saw her—everything about her seems sunk. Frail.

   Thomas stands up, and I feel rude for having to stay seated. “Hi, Mrs. Flores. I’m Thomas, we met at the memorial.” When she finally comes into the room and sits down on the chair to our left, Thomas sits too.

   “I remember you,” Mrs. Flores says, with a small nod. “How are you here? Aren’t you a patient at Ted Immenty?”

   “We came here because we have more information,” Thomas says, obviously avoiding her question.

   “Are you also a patient?” It takes me a moment to register that she’s talking to me and not Thomas. How do I respond to that? I technically am, but after running away, does it still count?

   “I spent a while there,” I decide on saying. My voice is shaky and quiet, and I can only hope she heard me clearly.

   “My meeting with your lawyers isn’t supposed to be today, but I was hoping I could push it up. We’re sorta pressed for time,” Thomas says.

   “Well, what do you know?” Mrs. Flores asks. _This is it._

   Thomas looks at me, then back at her. “I found something out. Something about Ava Paige.”

   “Anything will help,” Mrs. Flores says. Thomas sounds like he’s stalling. Maybe he’s not so confident after all.

   “I found a letter in Ava Paige’s office. It was from WCKD pharmaceuticals. I think she’s working with them, getting medication and testing it out on us,” Thomas says. Mrs. Flores’ eyes widen.

   “So she tested a pill out on Winston?” she says, her voice breaking.

   “Not exactly,” Thomas says. His leg is shaking, and his hands are fidgeting. He’s nervous—he has every right to be nervous.

   “Then what?” Mrs. Flores asks. She’s getting impatient. No more stalling.

   I turn to Thomas. His face has dropped, and he looks moments away from crying. He opens his mouth, then closes it. How’s he supposed to do this?

   “The medication wasn’t meant for Winston.” I’m saying the words before I can talk myself out of it. I couldn’t let Thomas do this. He lives with enough guilt, the least I can do is break the news. “It was supposed to go to Thomas, but Winston took it.”

   “Why? Why would he take it?” She’s crying now. I should have expected her to cry, but it still throws me off guard.

   “Winston felt he wasn’t getting what he needed, and Thomas felt he didn’t need what he was getting. So…” I take a deep breath. This is harder than I thought, and I was _not_ planning on telling her. “Thomas gave Winston what he wanted, because he thought he was helping. It was fine until he got the new pill.”

   Winston’s mother is looking at the ground. Thomas is looking at me. I feel guilty and I didn’t even _do_ anything. But she needs to know what happened to her son. This is a lot larger than an awkward conversation. I can feel Thomas bracing himself next to me.

   “What else?” Mrs. Flores asks with a sniffle after a few silent moments. I’m shocked at her reaction, but she looks so resigned that it actually makes it even sadder than getting angry. This woman has been through more than any mother should have to.

   “We broke out.” Thomas blurts it out, looking back at her. Her eyes widen, and he continues while my heart drops to my stomach. “I found out that they were going to give Newt”—he points to me—“something new and I broke us out to come see you. Ava Paige can’t be in charge of those kids anymore.”

   “You broke out of Ted Immenty? _How?_ ” She looks conflicted. Telling her was a mistake. She could call someone and get us in trouble. She could call TIMI, she could call the police. What would they do to us?

   “We had to, it was the only way. We needed to tell you what we know, and I had to save Newt and everyone else from them,” Thomas says.

   “But breaking out—isn’t that illegal?” she asks.

   This was a bad idea. This was a _really_ bad idea.

   “Are you going to get us in trouble?” I ask. It occurs to me that I need a new dosage of anxiety medication, because clearly this one isn’t working for me.

   Mrs. Flores looks between us. “No. But I’m going to need to record you saying everything you know before you leave,” she says. I exhale.

   “No problem, I’ll tell you everything,” Thomas says, also looking relieved to hear her say that she won’t rat us out.

   Mrs. Flores gets up, presumably to get a camera. I turn to Thomas.

   “Are you going to leave in all the things that will get you in trouble? That’ll get _Vince_ in trouble?” I ask.

   Thomas nods. “I don’t care about getting in trouble. This is going to her lawyers, and I won’t use Vince’s name. But even if I did, in the end, we’re not the ones that did anything wrong.”

   I’m not sure how much Vince will like that, but I don’t press. He’s right, we really aren’t at fault here. But as for where we stand legally, I’m not so clear on that.

   When Mrs. Flores comes back with a camera, two pieces of paper and two pens, she sits down on the edge of the coffee table in front of us.

   “I’m going to film you telling the story, then I’ll need you both of write out your sides and sign it,” she says, turning on her camera. She’s talking quickly, like she’s trying to get through this without breaking down.

   My palms are sweating, and I notice I’m tapping my foot in tens. What do I say? I’ve never been great under pressure, and the camera on me will make it even worse. Technically, I wasn’t involved in the case at all. I didn’t know Winston, I wasn’t with Thomas when he saw the letters to Ava Paige. All I know is what he told me.

   “Can it only be me on the recording?” Thomas asks. For a moment, I think _I’m_ the one that asked. It’s like he read my mind. “I’m the one with the information, he doesn’t know anything I don’t.”

   Mrs. Flores considers this for a painstakingly long moment, then nods. “Fine. But I’ll need you both to do the written statements.”

   “That’s fine,” Thomas says.

   While she fusses with the camera, I tap Thomas’ arm.

   “Thank you,” I whisper, keeping it so low that I practically mouth it.

   Thomas gives me a quick smile and nod, and suddenly the camera is up. I scoot down the couch to the side, and Thomas looks into the lens.

   The red light goes on. Mrs. Flores begins to list her name and the date. Then, it’s Thomas’ turn.

   “My name is Thomas Green, I was a patient at Ted Immenty Mental Institution for two and a half years, and this is everything I know about the death of Winston Flores.”

  
  
  


After Thomas’ detailed video, and writing our statements—mine looking as neat as I could make it with a shaking hand—Mrs. Flores lets us go with the knowledge that she’d be sharing our story with her lawyers today or tomorrow. At the door, she stops us and gives us a few snacks from her kitchen that we try and fail to refuse.

   I like her a lot, she’s extremely kindhearted. She could have blown up at Thomas for giving Winston the medication. Even _I_ would, if I were her. But she didn’t. After meeting her, thinking about what she’s going through breaks my heart even more.

   The walk—for Thomas, anyway—back to the car is silent. I think we’re both going over the last hour in our heads. We did the right thing, I’m confident in that now, but the process is the scariest thing I’ve ever had to go through.

   When we’re sitting in the front seats, Thomas leans his head back. His dark hair flops over his forehead, and all of the angles on his face, jaw and neck are sharp and defined. His skin is pale, and the bags under his eyes are still deep. But right now, as the small smile creeps onto his lips, I’ve never seen him look more… alive.

   He quickly springs back up, and pulls out his phone, the smile settling onto his face. I don’t know why he would be happy after something as heavy as that, but I’m not going to ask. After a minute of looking at it, he puts it down, then turns to me.

   “Do you want to call your parents from a payphone?” Thomas asks.

   The question stumps me more than it should. My obvious answer would be yes, but what could I even say to them right now that wouldn’t end in telling them where I am?

   “Not yet,” I say. Thomas nods, then starts the car. “How far is the hotel from here?”

   Thomas starts driving down the street in the opposite direction from where we came, and shakes his head.

   “Actually,” he says, “I had something else in mind.”


	33. thirty three

“It’s a…” We’ve driven a few miles, and now we’re in line in front of a gated entrance. The gate, however, could not possibly hide where we are.

   “An amusement park? Absolutely.”

   I can hear the delighted shrieks of kids on a ride, blaring music, the buzz of a crowd—the typical commotion that comes with a place like this. It’s been a long time since I last went to anything resembling an amusement park or fair. I suspect the same is true for Thomas, because I can see him staring up at all of it with a wide grin.

   “What’re we here for?” I ask. Thomas looks down at me with a frown.

   “I don’t know what they teach you in England, but us Americans like to have fun,” Thomas says.

   I roll my eyes. “I’ve lived here for twelve years, and I know how to have fun.”

   “Prove it then,” Thomas challenges.

   “Fine,” I say, after stopping myself from instinctively glaring at him.

   Maybe I shouldn’t be so cynical. It’s definitely proving difficult to be negative when we reach the front of the line and Thomas is getting our bracelets to enter, the excitement evident in his voice.

   The worker looks from Thomas, to me, then back and asks, “Can he transfer out of the wheelchair?” Not me. He doesn’t ask me. He asks Thomas. _Now_ that’s starting to get annoying.

   “I can,” I answer. I don’t love having to interact with people, but being disregarded for being in a wheelchair isn’t fun.

   “Oh, great then,” the worker says.

   With that, we go through the gates of Adventure World. The pathway on the inside is somewhat narrow, but luckily, it’s not as crowded as it seemed to be. There are rides everywhere, and where there aren’t any, there are food kiosks and games.

   “Have you been here before?” I ask. I never even knew this place existed, and the rides are all new to me.

   “When I was little, my mom used to take me and my sister here sometimes when my father was away,” Thomas says. I can’t see his face since he’s behind me, but his happy tone falters at the memory. “They’ve added some things since I’ve been here last—ooh!”

   Thomas rushes us—while almost hitting a small girl and her guardian who I smile at apologetically—over to the entrance of a ride. It’s very clearly a roller coaster, and my eyes widen looking up at it.

   I open my mouth to speak, but Thomas is already telling the girl working the machine that I can transfer onto the ride and I only have a broken ankle. She unfortunately seems fine with that, and lets us onto the ramp, getting us up onto the platform where they agree to keep my wheelchair. Thomas helps me up and into the little green car, and with the distraction of my tens, I don’t get a chance to protest.

   A harness comes down over my shoulders and I grip onto the metal bars, my anxiety kicking off. It’s not a big roller coaster, I can see elementary school kids coming up to ride it, but I’m still nervous.

   We start moving slowly, and I turn to see Thomas looking up at the sky, then all around him in disbelief. He’s here, he’s outside at an _amusement park_ of all places, he’s no longer trapped in a place like TIMI. As I watch him smile, my heart rate calms.

   Until we launch forward.

   Thomas is yelling, then I’m yelling too, and laughter escapes me from the sudden rush. Maybe roller coasters _weren’t_ so bad. My hair gets in my eyes from the wind blowing it around, and my face is completely numb from the cold stinging my face, but none of that bothers me. We’re high up— _very_ high up—and as we drop and climb, I get the beautiful sensation of moving so fast that your _only choice_ is to feel something freeing.

   How horrible can life be when you’re flying?

  
  
  


Thomas takes us over to a stand to get snow cones after the ride, because he’s already hungry somehow. But the whole way there, he raves about the roller coaster and relives basically every moment of it with exaggerated hand movements. It’s quite amusing, especially when he can barely stop talking long enough to order the food.

   “The part where we spun was my favorite for sure,” Thomas says, sitting down on a bench after facing my wheelchair towards it. “Actually, no, it was the bigger drop. Did we spin there too at the end? I think we did.”

   I laugh, watching him start his snow cone and taking the few second opportunity to talk. “We did. Your hair is sticking up in about a million different directions, by the way.”

   Thomas’ hand shoots up to fix his wild hair, and the failed attempt doesn’t help my laughter, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s only getting worse, because after this we’re going on that ride that spins.”

   That should sound fun, shouldn’t it? By all means, I should be having fun. My smiles and laughs aren’t fake, but they’re not authentic either. It feels hollow, like that’s what I’m _supposed_ to be doing. It’s definitely what I want to be doing, but under the surface, it’s empty.

   The worst part is that I can tell that it’s not just our current stresses that’s bothering me. Take away running from TIMI, not having contact with my parents, dealing with Winston’s mother—all of it. It’s underneath everything else, it’s deeper than that.

   “What’s up? Your face dropped,” Thomas asks. I hadn’t realized I spaced out, so I turn my head to look at him again as opposed to the vending machine I’d been fixated on.

   “Nothing, I’m fine,” I say, mostly out of habit. Thomas raises his eyebrows at me. I don’t know what possesses me to talk, but I do. “I just… Why can’t I feel things? This, right now, shouldn’t I be happy to be here? Excited to be free? Like you, you look as happy as you should be.”

   Thomas’s lips become a straight line. “We’re different people, right? I haven’t been out in years, so sure, I’m pretty excited.”

   “Exactly, and that’s the proper response. You seem so relaxed with everything going on,” I say.

   “I’m not relaxed, Newt,” Thomas says, lowering his voice. “Don’t put so much pressure on yourself to be happy. We’re in a scary situation right now.”

   His words help a little, but he still doesn’t get my point. “It’s not even about what’s happening, I just can’t do it. It’s like that feeling is gone. I can remember it, but I can’t make it happen.”

   “I know exactly what you mean, don’t worry,” Thomas says. “It’ll come back. I promise it will. Don’t worry about how you should feel right now, because sometimes it’s out of your control—as much as that might scare you. Let’s keep you grounded, alright?”

   Something wells up in me at his words. I’m not fixed, but he sure has a way of making it feel possible.

   “Alright,” I say.

   “Great,” Thomas says, standing up. “Now let’s go on a ride where we’re spinning up in the air. That oughta do it!”

   I laugh, and I long for it to be full.

  
  
  


We’ve gone on the Spinning Top, then the free fall, and now we’re on line for the bumper cars. It’s been hard for me to be anywhere _but_ grounded when we’re doing nothing but keeping occupied. Any time I zone out and Thomas notices, he obviously starts up a conversation to distract me. It helps not to have a moment to think, but the feeling isn’t gone.

   “I don’t think he can drive in the cast,” the worker tells us. Thomas and I look at each other.

   “You wanna ride with me?” Thomas says. “I used to kill at bumper cars when I was a kid.”

   I don’t want to say no, so I agree and Thomas walks me over to the closest car. I’m there in nine steps, but climbing in makes it eleven, so I’m forced to stop in my tracks halfway in, snapping my fingers as Thomas gets in the other side. Once I’m in, I begin to tap my feet nine times while Thomas looks around at the other cars.

   “What’re you doing?” I ask.

   Thomas, without looking at me, replies, “I’m checking out the competition and making a strategy.”

   “Tommy, it’s bumper cars. There’s no real objective to it, you just drive around,” I say.

   Thomas looks at me like I’ve grown three heads. “Bumper cars is a complex game, and there _absolutely_ is an objective. Hit and trap, and avoid being hit or trapped.”

   I want to tell him that he’s ridiculous, but I kind of want to see how he does. As he sits back in his seat, I notice how close we really are. This car was meant for children, not two tall teenage boys. Our arms and legs are pressed together, and I barely have room to move. Anywhere I put my left hand feels awkward, so I decide on resting both of my hands on my lap.

   The countdown buzzer starts, and I watch Thomas’ determined stare as it goes from three to one. When we go, Thomas makes a sharp right turn and starts going the opposite way as everyone else in the area.

   “They’re all going our way!” I say, trying to somehow shrink myself back into the seat.

   “Strategy, trust me!” Thomas somehow manages to avoid everyone coming our way, then zooms past them and up behind a little purple car. He gets up next to it as it’s about to turn, cutting it off and sending the car into the side, successfully blocking more cars behind it.

   “That girl couldn’t have been older than twelve,” I say, fighting back a laugh.

   “No mercy,” Thomas shouts to me. I’ve never seen anyone this into… well, _anything_ before. When he avoids another car, he throws his head back and yells, “Ha!”

   Apparently, that was a mistake. In his gloating he failed to notice another car coming up on our right—my side of the car—and doesn’t see it fast enough before it hits right into us, causing a pain to shoot up my leg.

   I close my eyes tight and try not to wince too much, but apparently I’m a bad actor because Thomas is giving me a string of apologies as he gets us away from the side.

   “I’m fine, it’s alright,” I lie, releasing the breath I didn’t know I was holding back. My foot feels like it’s been hit by a baseball.

   “No, it’s not alright. I’m gonna avenge you,” Thomas says.

   “That’s not necessary,” I say, rubbing my shin and hoping it’ll magically alleviate some of the pain.

   “Too late, got him in my sights already,” Thomas says. Sure enough, he’s heading straight towards a car. But it’s not the one that hit us.

   “That’s not even the car,” I say.

   “Yes it is,” Thomas says, still speeding to it.

   “The car was red,” I say. Thomas doesn’t seem to hear for a moment as we near it. “Thomas, the car—”

    “ _That’s_ the car,” Thomas says, not turning away.

   I brace myself for the thud of the car.

   But it doesn’t come. All of the cars stop, and a flashing light comes on, saying the time is up. I let out a shaky breath, then look at Thomas. He blinks a few times, then looks up at the light before looking at me.

   “Guess time’s up. Is your leg okay? Let’s get you to your wheelchair,” Thomas says.

   “Are _you_ okay?” I ask.

   “I’m fine, why?” Thomas asks. Not for the first time today, he’s freaking me out a bit.

   “Did you see the car as a different color? Are you feeling alright?” I ask.

   He’s silent for a moment, and I can’t read his expression. “I’m fine. Just a mistake, I guess. Come on, new people are coming in.”

   I go with him, and he seems normal as we make the awkwardly prolonged journey back to my wheelchair. It could have been a genuine mistake, the lighting is strange, and he could have seen the wrong car when it hit us. If he says he’s alright, I should trust him. Right?

   When we get to my wheelchair, I’m on two, so I get to five by taking extra steps before sitting down, but that still leaves me with five to tap out while the worker stares at me. I don’t want to do this. I have to do this, but I don’t want to.

   The thing about my tens, is that I’ve been trying to fix them, but sometimes they help. It’d make sense if it was just a coping mechanism that I used sometimes, but why do I have to do it constantly? I know it’s illogical, but my tens just feel _right._ Anything outside of them feels wrong.

   As I snap my fingers and we set off towards a different area of the park, my mind wanders to last night. Thomas says he can help me; that what he said is the key to helping my OCD. Everything he said sounded like it made sense in the moment, but is it true?

   Thomas is talking, and I try to listen to what he’s saying to push away the mental replay of last night.

   “Which one?” he asks.

   “Sorry, what?” I ask, looking up at him.

   “Ring toss, or throwing the balls?” Thomas says loudly down to me, both of us having to practically shout over the people and the music.

   I look at our surroundings, and see that we’re stood between two booths. One is a ring toss, the other is one where you throw green balls at a pyramid of cans.

   “Throwing the balls,” I say. I’d say it looks easier, but Thomas would probably take that as some sort of challenge.

   Thomas wheels me up, then asks the lady to play. I’m at an angle where I’m looking up at him, but I can also see the pyramid of cans he’s trying to knock down, so when he throws the first one and it only nudges the bottom row’s middle can, I chuckle.

   “Hey, this is difficult, alright? I’ve got three more, I can do this,” Thomas says, in a fake annoyed tone.

   The next one manages to knock down the top three—resulting in a loud cheer from Thomas—and the one after that gets the left can from the remaining row. Two more cans, one more ball left.

   Thomas squints in concentration, and I notice how the colored lights from the booth shines on him, making him different shades of purples and reds and yellows. He said he’s not relaxed, but he looks utterly normal right now.

   I’m noticing things I don’t usually notice. Like the gleam of his eyes as he looks at his target, the way his shirt rides up a little in the front while he brings his arm back, the way his jaw drops a bit in the second it takes the ball to get from his hand to the cans. I’m noticing things I don’t want to notice.

   Thomas yells, and for a split second I have no idea why. But when my brain catches up, I turn to see that Thomas successfully knocked down all of the cans, making me smile.

   “Pick your prize from the wall,” the lady says. On the wall behind her are a bunch of different typical fair prizes. As Thomas looks at them, I stare at my hands. I tap out tens with my thumb onto the palm of my other hand.

   “Newt?” I look up, and Thomas is beaming at me. He’s got his hands behind his back, and he’s rocking back on his heels. I tilt my head, and Thomas hands me something.

   “What…” I start to ask what it is, but I know exactly what it is. It’s a plush cartoon looking shark, with a smile and wide eyes. Out of old habit, I squeeze it and it’s even softer than it looks.

   “It’s a shark! D’ya like it?” Thomas asks. “It seemed the most appropriate for you.”

   “For me?” I ask. Someone walks up behind us for the booth, so Thomas gets behind my chair and pushes us away.

   “Of course for you, who else?” Thomas asks. He starts talking about another ride he wants to go on, but I’m just staring down at the shark. This is for _me?_ It’s probably just a small friendly gesture to him, but it warms my heart. A lot.

    _Don’t overthink this. Don’t overthink this._

  
  
  


I’m in the car, and Thomas is putting my wheelchair in the back. It’s getting dark out now, and we went on a few more rides. I can’t say I didn’t have a good time, because given the circumstances, I had about as nice of a time as I could have.

   Absentmindedly, I start playing with the fin of the shark toy. All day, I’ve been fighting with myself to drown out memories of last night. I don’t have the time for any of that, I don’t have time to wonder. Would it heal me? If anything, it feels like it may _add_ problems. No, I can’t add any problems to my already long list of them.

   When Thomas gets in the car and sits beside me, I get a weird feeling in my stomach—butterflies. The day of Winston’s memorial comes to mind, and stays there. The awkwardness of Thomas walking in while I was changing. Holding hands on the bus. My anxiety at our slight contact. Thomas saving me.

   As Thomas starts the car, I focus on the sound to distract from replaying my ‘incident’ over in my head.

   “Tommy?” I ask, my voice coming from far away.

   “Yeah?” Thomas asks, turning to me with kind eyes.

   I have to tap my good foot in tens to get through my sentence. “Can we just sit here for a little while?”

   It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for Thomas to respond. “Sure thing.”

   I break the momentary silence. “Thank you. For everything.”

   “No need to thank me,” Thomas says sweetly.

   We’re on the bus again. _There’s places for you to go_ , Thomas had told me. _You’ll see._

   I’m staring forward, but allow myself one quick look to make sure I don’t miss before I reach over and take his hand in mine. I feel his eyes burning into the side of my head. After trying not to look, I cave and confirm my suspicions. He’s smiling wide.

   That should scare me, and it does. The way he looks at me like I’m doing something big, something life changing. I want to run, I want to never think about this again. But I don’t. I don’t let go.

   The boy that saved my life looks down at our hands and intertwines our fingers. I force myself to breathe. I force myself not to think anything more of this than I need to.

   He doesn’t draw any attention to it. He doesn’t make me feel weird. After a few moments, be begins to speak softly about Adventure World as if nothing else is going on. My breathing slows. My heart keeps hammering in my chest. I listen.


	34. thirty four

I let go first. I don’t make a big deal of it, but I tell him I’m hungry—a lie, but I need an excuse—and tired so he starts driving. Letting go is written off as simply for safety purposes, considering he can barely drive with _two_ hands.

   We wind up getting a buffet of fast food, which we bring back to the hotel. Getting there is nerve wracking, but luckily there are no police cars waiting for us. Now, we’re sitting side by side on the bed with the TV and a spread of food in front of us.

   “Do you like this show?” Thomas asks. He’s holding the remote and flipping through channels, and I hardly recognize anything on.

   “I’m not sure, I never watched a lot of TV,” I say. It’s odd, I keep catching myself referring to my life before TIMI in the past tense as if it’s gone.

   “Oh, you were one of _those_ then?” Thomas says.

   “No, it was just got difficult. The channel numbers would bother me when I saw them, and so would the volume. Had to be even numbers or numbers that ended with five,” I say.

   “Alright, then we’ll put the volume on twenty and look for something good on an even channel,” Thomas says with a smile. A voice in the back of my head tells me that his patience is fleeting. I try not to listen.

   We settle on an old sitcom that Thomas swears is good, and get to eating. There’s about eight burgers, four things of large fries, huge things of chicken nuggets, and a few other assorted food items. He digs into one of the burgers, and I finally ask one of the questions that’s been bothering me.

   “Where did you get all this money?” I ask. Every time it comes to paying, Thomas pulls out cash, and it never seems to end. I haven’t really _wanted_ to know the answer, but if I’m involved in some sort of bank robbery, I’d like to be aware.

   Thomas swallows what he was chewing, then shrugs. “Child support, it’s mine,” he says, looking ahead at the TV.

   “Oh,” I say. Thomas nods, and I drop it, picking up one of the containers of fries. He’s shaking his foot, and I try desperately not to count out tens. It’s not even _me_.

   After a few minutes of watching the show, Thomas mutes the TV and turns so his body is facing me.

   “So, you never watched a lot of TV, you liked to read, you don’t like sports… That’s all I really know about you,” Thomas says. He’s sitting with his legs crossed, and now he puts his elbows on his knees and rests his face in his hands.

   I frown and turn to face him, causing our knees to press into each other’s. It’s not exactly a big bed—especially with my cast. “You know _tons_ about me. More than anyone else,” I say. As scary as it is, it’s definitely the truth.

   “Yeah, but that’s different. Tell me about yourself. Not your OCD, _you_ ,” Thomas says.

   “Isn’t that all I am at this point?” It’s my immediate response, but I know how it must sound to Thomas.

   “No, and you know that it’s not. C’mon, tell me things. What’s your favorite color?” Thomas asks.

   “Blue, I guess,” I say after a moment.

   “See? Not everything is OCD related,” Thomas says. “Keep going. Favorite food?”

   I actually _do_ have a set answer for that one. “Back when we lived in England we’d have Shepherd’s pie every Sunday. It was the first thing my mother learned how to make for my dad. But once we moved here, we kept up the tradition for a while til it faded off. Now she makes it for special occasions or if one of us has a bad day.” I talk about my family out of habit, but the thought makes me sick now. Will I have that anymore? Is that gone forever?

   “What part of England are you from?” Thomas asks. I don’t want to talk about anything family related anymore, but he seems genuinely interested so I don’t want to be rude.

   “South London,” I say. Thomas nods.

   “What else? School memories, favorite things, best days, whatever you were for Halloween when you were eight. I wanna know,” Thomas says.

   I just look at him for a moment. Nobody’s ever said anything like that to me. In my opinion, I’m not all that interesting. Is he asking all of this to be nice? He must think there’s more to me than there is. But for now, as he gazes at me expectantly, I feel the need to tell him what he wants to know. He’ll figure out on his own that I’m boring.

   “There’s not much to say, really. When I was little, I’d read and wasn’t exactly an extrovert but I was sociable enough. Once I got friends, we’d play video games, and my favorites were the strategy ones. I never was big on TV, but I liked a lot of movies—Star Wars was a huge obsession of mine. I was Luke and Han for different Halloweens. The Halloween I was Luke, Teresa was Leia. That was a really fun one, we went to a classmate’s party.” I’m not sure where all of it comes from in the moment, but I continue on listing days and facts that I forgot existed until now.

   As I talk, Thomas keeps a smile on his face. His expression is almost distracting, and it starts to make me nervous. Not exactly the bad anxiety kind of nervous, but something else. He doesn’t look bored, and that shocks me considering all I’m doing is talking about myself—something I’m only used to doing in therapy. But even then, it’s never like this.

   I tell him how my favorite music was always a mix of really old things, alternative bands, and random modern mainstream things. I tell him about how my favorite animals are dogs but I’ve never had one. I tell him about the bike I got for Christmas when I was in fifth grade. I tell him how my favorite season is Winter. The only time he interrupts is to ask questions, and after a while, I become extremely aware of how much I’ve said.

   “I’m sorry,” I say, seconds after telling him about my favorite teacher. “That was a lot of unnecessary information. But there, that was the old me.” My face is flushed with embarrassment, and I look down to hide it.

   “Don’t apologize, I loved every second of that,” Thomas says. “And by the way?”—I look back at him—“That’s still you. You’re not gone.”

    _It sure feels like it._ “If I ask what _you’re_ like, will you answer?” I ask, after giving him a small smile in response.

   “Why wouldn’t I?” Thomas asks.

   I raise my eyebrows. “I don’t know a lot about you, you know.”

   Thomas laughs. “Let’s fix that then. My favorite color is red—despite my last name. My favorite season is Summer, I _love_ TV and movies. Reading is a little harder for me, my mind wanders. But I’ve enjoyed anything I’ve read. I’m a dog person, but elephants and lions are my favorite animals. I like just about any kind of music, but nothing too heavy and loud.”

   That’s only the beginning. What follows is one of the most extensive descriptions of a person I’ve ever heard, even following my own. He doesn’t dive too personal, he doesn’t talk about his family life, he doesn’t talk about anything related to his hallucinations or any other symptoms. Just himself.

   I find myself smiling at every word. Him opening up like this definitely isn’t what I expected. He’s enthusiastic in how he tells his stories too, and it makes it all the more entertaining to listen to. He tells me about his odd obsessions and phases growing up, he tells me hobbies he’s had and pet peeves and favorite ice cream flavors.

   Something is happening in my chest the more he rambles; a swelling feeling. Not the spreading of coldness I get with sadness or anxiety. Something new.

    _I kissed this boy. I held this boy’s hand._

Suddenly, it’s more difficult to pay attention to Thomas’ words. I try desperately to grab onto them, but they constantly overlap with my thoughts. He’s talking about his freshman year psychology class. Listen to him.

   I get through his next words while I fight with my heart to keep steady. Then, Thomas pauses.

   “I think that’s about as much as I can think of on my own. Do you have any questions? I’ll answer anything you want to know,” Thomas says.

   This is a golden opportunity to ask something I’ve been wondering about him. _Ask about his sister. Ask about being sent to TIMI._ “How did you figure out that you’re bi?” _Why? Why did I ask that?_

   I don’t look him in the eyes while I ask, because I just know he’ll be smirking and I’m not good at masking embarrassment. Especially when it comes to this, apparently.

   “I didn’t think much of it in middle school, because I had a girlfriend. So I just figured that since I liked girls, that was all there was to it,” Thomas starts. I meet his eyes and he’s wearing the exact expression I’d imagined. “Anyway, we broke up and I got my second girlfriend before freshman year. That didn’t last long. So after her, I started noticing more and more that the _admiration_ ”—Thomas uses air quotes around the last word—“I had for some male celebrities and guys I knew wasn’t just admiration.”

   “How’d you realize that?” I ask, putting my brain on autopilot.

   “I just asked myself the question of would I rather _be_ them or be _with_ them. Some thoughts are difficult to confuse. I had this friend in one of my classes that really helped. At first I thought I just really liked being his friend, but then I realized it was something else. He was straight of course, which made it very awkward,” Thomas says. _I just really liked being his friend_. I fight my thoughts.

   “Did you ever tell him?” I ask. The thing that astounds me the most is that Thomas had the time to think about things like this despite all he had going on. Doesn’t all of this come last when you have more important things to focus on?

   “That’s what made it awkward. His exact words were, ‘Hey dude, I don’t swing that way but I know who does.’ Classy, I know. But actually very helpful. He told me about this boy Dmitri, who had apparently come out as gay a few weeks earlier. So I got his number and texted him,” Thomas says.

   His confidence from telling the boy that he liked him to texting Dmitri astounds me. I can’t ever imagine being so forward. But I guess once you’ve gone through as much as he has, things like that don’t seem like such a big deal. “So what happened?”

   “I told him how I felt, and he said we should hang out. So we did, and a week later we were dating,” Thomas says. My eyes widen.

   “Seriously? That quickly?” I ask.

   Thomas laughs. “Yeah. I mean, it’s not like we had a huge selection of options. But we liked each other.”

   “What happened? I mean, how long…” I trail off, not sure how to word my question, but I think I’ve said enough.

   “We broke up a little before I came to TIMI.” His smile doesn’t go away, but I can tell that it becomes sadder. I open my mouth to ask how it ended, but close it again. Odds are, he doesn’t want to talk about that any further.

   “When did you tell your family?” I ask quietly.

   A dark look flashes over his features, and I wish I could take back my question. “After Dmitri and I started dating,” he says, his tone matching his look. “It was complicated.”

   I definitely don’t want to make him dive deeper, but the curiosity of what happened will eat at me. What happened before he came to TIMI? What happened when he told his family? He’s made it sound like being bi wasn’t a big deal, and I hope it wasn’t. But how can he tell _me_ not to be scared at the thought?

   He’s not asking me why I asked, but I feel like I need some sort of reason. It’d be easier if I had one.

   “I went to a fair with Alby once.” Out of everything that I could possibly respond with, _that’s_ what comes out.

   “When?” Thomas asks. Apparently it doesn’t strike him as odd that I randomly brought up a fair I went to once.

   “I was… either twelve or thirteen, I think,” I say. “It was at our school, and it was huge. I didn’t want to go, but Alby swore it would be fun.”

   “Was it?” Thomas asks.

   “There were too many people, but I guess it was. That was the last one I went to before today,” I say.

   “Were you thinking about him?” Thomas asks.

   I start fidgeting with the material of my pants. What would it mean if I told Thomas he makes me think of Alby sometimes? How would he take that? I don’t think I was necessarily thinking about Alby today, but at certain moments with Thomas he’ll pop into my mind. What would Thomas say about that?

   “No,” I decide on.

   Thomas is silent for a moment. “I can’t help you if you’re not honest.”

   “When did helping me become your job?” I snap. Looking at him, he doesn’t seem phased. I take a shaky breath. “Why is this something I need to think about now? What’s so important about this?”

   “About figuring out who you are?” Thomas asks, choosing to ignore my first question.

   “What does it have to do with anything? I have a lot more to worry about, there’s no time for anything else,” I say.

   “It has to do with everything. If you’re suppressing that you’re gay—”

   “Stop.” It comes out forcefully, despite my trouble breathing. Thomas pauses. The fact that I’m proving his point is even scarier. “I’m-I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just—”

   “It’s alright, okay? Don’t worry about it,” Thomas says quickly, putting a hand on my forearm. I look at it while he continues talking. “My point is that thinking about these things would be important because putting yourself last all the time isn’t good for you. If you aren’t being you because you’re afraid of other people, you’ll never get better.”

   I close my eyes. How can I be doing all of that so subconsciously? I think Thomas senses that I’m not going to respond, so he keeps going.

   “You like to be in control, right? Your OCD is an escape, so what’re you escaping from?” Thomas asks.

   I only notice that there are tears in my eyes once I start blinking rapidly. Is he right? Am I just escaping? I want to ask what I’m escaping, but deep down, I can already think of a few answers. My parents. Alby. _Myself._

   “I just want things to be normal. I just want my parents to be normal. _I_ just want to be normal,” I say, my voice cracking at the end.

   “You can be,” Thomas says softly. His hand is in mine again now. It feels cold and warm at the same time. I’m holding tight. “You’re not abnormal, Newt. There doesn’t have to be anything weird about you. But there are always going to be things that make you uniquely yourself.”

   “An insane kid with divorcing parents?” I ask humorlessly.

   “You’re not defined by those things, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. You’re kind-hearted, smart, funny, loyal, caring—I could go on. _That’s_ you. Not your OCD, not your anxiety, not your depression, not your parents. None of that,” Thomas says. He’s close to me.

   “You only just met me.” It comes out as a whisper.

   “You said yourself that I know you better than anyone else,” Thomas says. There’s a glint in his eye, like the spark of a flame that had seemingly long since died out.

   Thomas hugs me. I wrap my arms around him and hug back, and tears continue to run down my face. I’ve cried more times in front of Thomas than I’d care to admit.

   Here’s this boy that says he can help me, that tells me that I’m more than my mental illnesses and saved my _life._ He knows me—sometimes better than I know myself. I don’t have to be afraid of him. I’m sick and tired of being afraid of everything.

   After a minute, I pull back first. The tears are no longer flowing, but I can feel them drying on my face. I can feel Thomas’ arm still around my torso, and mine still over his shoulder. I can feel the dull ache of my foot from earlier. I can feel the alarms in my head going off. I can feel all of my thoughts vanish.

   Without thinking about what it means and without thinking it through, I try to get back the flying feeling. I’m taking off when our noses brush against each other’s, and I’m soaring when our lips touch.

   I’m rushed and shaky, but Thomas slows me down; steadies me. I can’t feel anything but him, because everything in my body is numb aside from the swarm of butterflies in my stomach. The material of his shirt is soft, and he’s warm beneath it. His thumb is brushing against my cheek, I can feel that.

   I’m still not sure if I’m doing this correctly—it looks so complicated in the movies. But it comes more naturally than I thought. It feels like we’re mutually guiding each other, and it only confirms yesterday’s thought. _This is right._

   Is Thomas the answer? It doesn’t make sense, but is it even supposed to? Once again, I’m not counting—I don’t want to—so I have no clue how long the kiss lasts. But when it’s over, neither of us move our foreheads away. I don’t want to let the moment of thoughtlessness go.

   “Newt,” Thomas says breathlessly. I open my eyes, and he’s still right there. I don’t want to talk about what this means, I don’t want to talk about how I feel, I don’t want to talk about _anything._

   “Tommy,” I say, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. I go to apologize, because that’s my instinct. But before I can get a word out, Thomas is speaking.

   “We’re even now,” he says, a smile spreading onto his face as my eyes flutter open.

   It’s the last thing I expected him to say, so I surprise myself by laughing, moving my head away as a result. He laughs too, and I rub my eye to feel that it’s still not dry. My face is burning and undoubtedly red.

   Maybe it’ll be okay.

  
  
  


Neither of us mention it for the rest of the night. Thomas eats more, and I try to as well despite how jittery I am. We take our night medication, then find a movie from twenty years ago that’s on channel fifty and only half pay attention to it while we talk.

   The amazing thing about it is that we talk about everything and nothing. It’s been forever since I’ve been able to do that, but it feels nice. We don’t mention our situation either; for a little while it’s like we could just be regular kids hanging out.

   Eventually we both change into pajamas, and I’m exhausted from the day. I’ve never known a freedom like we had today, and as terrifying as that is, it’s almost just as exciting. Thomas is in the same boat as I am; we’re on the same team. We’ll navigate our way through this.

   While Thomas is fussing with his stuff, I take my journal and pen and scribble down a few things. Things like leaving with Thomas, like meeting Winston’s mother, like Ava Paige and WCKD pharmaceuticals. I leave out the more… _personal_ details. Not because I’m afraid of someone seeing, but because I’m not keen on thinking about those things myself.

   Once I’m done with that, I lie down and toss and turn trying to find a position that doesn’t bother my foot. When Thomas comes to bed, he gets in and furrows his eyebrows at me.

   “Are you alright?” he asks.

   “I’m okay,” I say, shifting my foot to the side.

   “What’s the matter?” How does he do that?

   “My foot—I’m fine. It’s just a little difficult to comfortably lie down with a boot is all,” I say.

   Thomas scrunches up his nose in thought, then reaches over and turns the lamp off. He then turns to me and I have to squint to see him.

   “Turn that way,” he says, pointing to the door. I do it, and it’s not much better at all. But a few seconds later, I feel Thomas gently lift my foot and put something—a pillow, I think—beneath it.

   “But Tommy, you only have one now,” I say, my words sluggish from the sleeping pill.

   “Don’t worry about it,” Thomas whispers back. “Is that okay?”

   “It is,” I say.

   Thomas’ arm is pressed up against my back, and I become very aware of that when he tenses up. After a few moments, he moves. My eyelids are heavy, and I can barely keep them open as I feel an arm wrap around me.

   “Is _this_ okay?” he says so softly I almost don’t hear him. Just like before, he’s warm against me. Not in a bad way, but in a comforting way. So comforting that I lean into it, my eyes now shut for the night. All I hear now is the sound of the TV on five and our slowing breaths.

   “It is.”

  
  
  


Thomas wakes me up to take my medication, and we sit close together leaning up against the headboards while sorting through them. He’s very smiley and talkative today, which is why I notice it so much when his face suddenly gets serious.

   “Tommy, what’s wrong?” I ask.

   He shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says, giving me a strained smile.

   “Are you sure?” I ask.

   “Positive. You’re done, right?” he asks, taking my cup of medication and putting it back in the container. I frown because I don’t believe him, but I don’t press it.

   As I get dressed, I can’t help but wonder what we’re doing. How long could we possibly stay here? We’ll run out of money or we’ll be found, and then what?

   My thoughts and fears aren’t helped when I walk out to see Thomas zipping our suitcases up.

   “What’s going on?” I ask. He looks at me, and his face is painted with confusion. “Thomas.”

   “Sorry. We’re gonna stay somewhere else, and we have to make a stop on the way,” Thomas says. “Here, give me your clothes, I got us packed up.”

   “Why do we have to go somewhere else?” I ask, as Thomas takes the clothes I just changed out of from my hands.

   “I have my reasons,” Thomas says, putting my things back in my suitcase. He then takes out his phone, staring down at it intently. “Need help getting into your chair?”

   Four. I was on four. I keep walking and get into my wheelchair, putting that in the forefront of my mind. But once I’m in and snapping my fingers, I’m focused on Thomas. Were we caught? Does someone know where we are?

   He picks up the suitcases and gives them to me to hold, and my nerves freeze me. I take them and hold them on my lap, and Thomas gets behind me. Before he starts pushing, I look around the room to make sure we didn’t leave anything, and then we’re off.

   I take deep breaths as we make our way down the hallway. If something happened, wouldn’t he tell me? I think I have the right to know. Either way, I trust him enough to know if getting out of here is the best idea.

   “Is everything alright?” I ask as we near the exit.

   “It is,” Thomas says. His voice sounds strangely detached. Maybe I’m overthinking this.

   We get to the car and he wheels me over to my side and opens the door, then takes the bags and walks over to the trunk hurriedly. I have a seriously bad feeling, but I get up and count.

   Two to stand, then I reach six by the time I’m in the car. I close the door, then tap out the remaining four with my feet. My snapping is loud, and I focus on the clicks.

   Thomas gets the wheelchair in the backseat, and I flinch at the noises it makes. Then he’s in the seat next to me, and it feels completely different from last night. Something has changed.

   His hands are shaky starting the car, and it’s a red flag. But before I can say anything, he’s driving out of the parking lot. He’s not speaking, and his eyes dart around, not landing anywhere specific for more than a couple of seconds. How many times can I ask what’s wrong?

   I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure he’s speeding. When I’m anxious, my senses tend to be heightened, so the speed makes me almost dizzy. I don’t want to freak him out while he’s driving, so as long as he’s on the road, I settle on not saying anything. Putting my hand on his arm crosses my mind, but I’m too afraid.

   A few minutes into the drive, Thomas pulls into a pharmacy and parks horribly to the side, the car practically sitting on a curb. He doesn’t say a word to me before getting out of the car and jogging inside. I’m left to sit in the car and wonder why on Earth I’m here.

   I shake my leg in tens and replay the morning in my head. Did something happen while I was asleep? There could be a number of reasons he chose to stop at a pharmacy, but I can’t think of a single one right now. I hold onto hope that this is all in my imagination, although it doesn’t feel likely.

   There’s sirens in the distance. I can’t help but wonder if they’re for us. There’s sounds of slamming doors in the parking lot. Distant talking. Cars rushing by.

   After a few agonizing minutes, Thomas walks out of the pharmacy with an unreadable expression. The only thing I’m sure it isn’t is happiness. He’s walking fast, and once again he’s looking around as if he’s on guard.

   When he gets back in the car and I’m closer to him, I can see that his eyes look more vacant than they were yesterday. He’s not holding anything, so I don’t think he bought anything from inside.

   “What did you need—”

   “They’re working with WCKD pharmaceuticals too,” Thomas blurts out, starting the car. His tone doesn’t carry any of the emotion it sounds it should.

   “What? The pharmacy?” I ask.

   “I saw it,” Thomas says, getting onto the road by narrowly missing a pole. He wasn’t a great driver before, but this is a new level of bad.

   “Okay,” I say cautiously. Now we’re _definitely_ speeding. “Thomas slow down, what did you see?”

   I look forward just in time for Thomas to swerve hard, startling me before he gets back in our lane. My heart is beating so fast that the shock makes my eyes tear up, and I brace myself against my seat. I flashback to bumper cars yesterday. Everything is wrong.

   “What was that?” I say, unable to control my volume so it comes out louder than intended.

   “The bird, it came right for us,” Thomas says breathlessly, matching my volume. He sounds petrified now.

   My eyes widen. The only bird I saw was far away from us, not even flying in our direction. He’s not okay—he is _far_ from okay. And he’s driving.

   “Thomas, you’re scaring me.”

   After the words are out, he looks at me like I’ve just told him the worst news of his life. This is not the Thomas from the roller coaster yesterday. This is the Thomas that got put into solitary.

   When I look forward, I notice in a split second that Thomas is unknowingly about to swerve into oncoming traffic. I’m standing in the street again. I’m standing in school again. I’m frozen.

   When I grab the steering wheel and turn it, I feel as if I had no control over it. My instincts took over, and now Thomas takes back control of the car. I yell. He doesn’t.

   Blood is pounding in my ears and everything is happening so suddenly that it feels like I’m watching from afar, so I don’t even hear myself telling Thomas to pull over. But fortunately, he listens. I fumble around to take out my phone as he does so and dial one of the only two people’s numbers I have on here. Vince.

   I only notice that Thomas is crying as I wait for Vince to pick up. I’m terrified. _This was all a mistake. This was all a mistake._

   “Hello?”

   “Vince,” I start, my voice shaky, “Thomas is—I don’t know what happened, he was okay, but now he—”

   “What’s going on?” Vince asks.

   “Thomas is freaking out and I don’t know what to do,” I say, wiping my eyes with a vibrating hand.

   Vince is silent for a second. “God, alright, where are you?”

   “On the side of a road,” I say. I go to tell him which but the phone is being taken from me.

   “Vince, something was missing, something happened,” Thomas says, his eyes closed as he shakes his head. “It was them, they did it. They did it, they did it.”

   “Thomas, what do you need?” I ask, pleading for an answer. “What’s missing?”

   “I messed up, I messed up,” Thomas says, still hysterical. “It’s their fault, it’s all their fault.”

   I ask over and over again what he needs and what happened, but he doesn’t give me a single coherent word. He’s gone right now, and there’s nothing I can do. The only thing he says that makes sense is the name of the street we’re on.

   When Thomas hangs up the phone, he doesn’t look at me.

   “I’m sorry,” is all he says.

   “Thomas please just talk to me,” I say. It’s hitting me that we almost died just now. “What happened?”

   I’m sobbing and all Thomas offers is an occasional “I’m sorry.” I try to say more, but none of my words come out. I’m helpless. I want to drive, but I can’t. I never will. I want to call the police, but I can’t. They’ll arrest Thomas. I want to call an ambulance to take Thomas to the hospital, but I can’t. They won’t have what Thomas needs. He needs help.

   One of the worst parts is that it feels like I’ve lost the Thomas that comforted me and made me smile all these times—the boy from last night. This is the Thomas I need to be careful with.

   After a few minutes, a knock at my window sends my heart even further into my stomach. There’s a man standing there. He isn’t wearing a cop’s uniform, which is good. But my first thought is that he’s danger.

   “Open up, I’m Vince’s friend.”

  
  
  


Vince’s friend manages to get a very unresponsive Thomas into his van along with my wheelchair and our suitcases. I’m no help with my limp and my tens; I never am. The numbers are loud in my head.

   Now we’re sitting in the backseat as we’re driven away. Thomas’ eyes are closed. He’s breathing.

   Only a few minutes into the drive do I quietly ask where we’re going. It isn’t necessary, because I already know the answer. When he confirms my suspicions, I sink back into my seat.

   We’re going to TIMI.


	35. thirty five

It’s twelve in the afternoon when we arrive back at the place from which we made our great escape. Thomas has been asleep the whole ride here, and I’m not keen on waking him.

   The building looks smaller this time as we approach it. It’s only been less than two days, but it feels like entering a different dimension. I can’t tell if anything has majorly changed about me, but it feels like the person that walked out of there is not the same one that’s about to walk in.

   I didn’t fight Vince’s friend—Eric, I’ve learned—on taking us back. As much as we hate the place, if Thomas needs some sort of medication, where else can we go? I certainly don’t have it, and I wouldn’t know who does aside from TIMI. If he needs help, that’s the most important thing.

   A part of me knew this was inevitable. We couldn’t live like that forever. But now we’re back, and I have to face the consequences of running.

   It was Vince’s idea to come back, and I trust his judgement enough not to question him. He has a cover story ready, and I’m going to go along with it. After all he did for us, he doesn’t deserve to be punished.

   I count the deep breaths I take in the back of the van, switching my gaze from outside to Thomas. He’s got his face pressed against the window, and he looks much more peaceful than before. Without consciousness plaguing him, the alien expression he had is no longer there, and it’s melted back into the softer features of the Thomas I know.

   “Are you ready?” Eric asks. _That’s a ridiculous question._

   We’re parked in front of the main building I had to go to when I checked in. I was so anxious that day; I didn’t know what to expect. It certainly wasn’t this. I was dreading the change of being in a new place without my family. Now I’m dreading something totally different.

   “Yeah.”

  
  
  


They treat us like criminals being transported to jail as they bring us back into TIMI. _Are_ we criminals? I’m not sure if we broke the law, but if we’re still right about them and WCKD, would that even matter?

   Thomas freaks out upon being woken up by TIMI nurses taking him out of the van, but they were ready for that. I watched helplessly as they sedated him and put him in a wheelchair similar to mine.

   As for me, I just sit still and let them roll me back in alongside Thomas. They don’t ask me anything or even address me at all aside from a warning not to try anything, most likely because other people want to do the talking. In front of us, two nurses hold our suitcases, and there’s something morbidly funny about the sight of them carrying our things for us.

   I wish Thomas was awake and able to talk to me. He always has a way of making things seem better, and right now, they couldn’t look worse. I’m tapping out tens on the arm of my chair as we go through the doors.

   We’re immediately brought to our building after a humiliating pat down by a security guard, and are greeted with the beautiful sight of Janson and Ava Paige waiting behind the doors. My stomach lurches, and if I wasn’t in such a numb state, I’d probably throw up. I can hear my heart beating, and all I want is to see my mother.

   Ava Paige walks forward with a cold smile and looks at Thomas before looking at me. We lock eyes, and I wish I would disappear.

   “Get them to their rooms,” she directs, only breaking her gaze when they start to wheel me away. I can see Janson leering at us from beside her.

   The hallways feel infinitely colder. Everything about it is unpleasant, and I can hear every little noise made. The rolling wheels, the squeaking sound of sneakers on the tile, and a distant buzz of voices. They’ll be eating lunch now. I wonder if they know we’re back. Were they even told we left in the first place?

   I feel even more hopeless than I did the day I came back here from the hospital. Because that day, I knew I’d have to answer for the accident. I had excuses. But this is a new level of bad. I have no answers.

   Part of me holds on to a ridiculous shred of hope that Ava Paige meant _our_ rooms; the ones with Chuck and Minho. But as we’re wheeled into the solitary section, I know that the fantasy of getting to be back with Chuck is just that. I could use his optimism right now.

   I’m wheeled to my room, and I watch as Thomas is wheeled past me to his. His shoulders are slumped, and he’s practically falling forwards. If I wasn’t in this chair, I’d run over to him and keep him steady.

   “He needs help,” I say loudly and suddenly, surprising everyone around me; including myself. The nurse wheeling him turns around, and mine stops in my doorway. “Thomas. He needs help, he needs medication.”

   The nurse looks conflicted, and almost afraid to respond. “He’ll get it,” he says. I vaguely recognize him from around. Is he in on it too? Everything with WCKD pharmaceuticals?

   I’m wheeled over to my bed after they explain that I’ll get my suitcase back once they’ve checked in my ‘contraband’, and then the nurse walks out without another word to stand in front of my door. It’s occurring to me that now, I’m a flight risk. More importantly, I’m dangerous. If it’s possible to be set further behind than square one, I’m there.

   I’m back.

  
  
  


Somehow, I fall asleep. I’m not sure how I manage with all of my anxiety, but I do. I only realize I had when my door opens up, startling me awake. I’m cold already, but my blood turns to ice when Ava Paige steps into the room.

   “Newton, I’d like to speak with you in my office if that’s alright,” Ava Paige says. Her demeanor is deceivingly calm, but her eyes tell a different story.

    _Do I have a choice?_ Running is obviously not an option for a number of reasons, so I force myself to swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up. I’m immediately woozy, and wobble before grabbing onto the side of my wheelchair. After a moment, I remember that I haven’t eaten today.

Her eyes are on me as I take two more steps after my initial two, and once I’m in my chair, I have six left. I tap my feet, and laser focus myself on the noise. _Five. Six. Seven._ She’s walking over. _Eight. Nine. Ten._ She’s behind my chair. We start off out of the room as I’m snapping my fingers.

   I don’t stop snapping my fingers while we get to her office. The sharp clicking rings through the hallway, and I keep track of the numbers. After one of the rounds, I look up at a clock. It’s three, so I would usually be in group around this time, which means she’s not running it today to deal with me.

   As we go, I feel like the floor is sinking and so am I. The ceiling seems to push me down, and I’m moving through water. I don’t want to be in this chair, but I have a feeling that if I stood up, I’d collapse.

   I’m pushed into her office, and I realize that I’ve never seen it before. The temperature feels like it was turned down by thirty degrees, but somehow that doesn’t surprise me. It’s not very homely—there’s a desk and a bunch of filing cabinets. No plants, no couch.

   She wheels me up next to a chair, then sits behind her desk as I finish a round of snapping. I don’t know if she expects me to get into the chair, but if she does, she’s mistaken. I count the checkers in the floor tiles.

   “Welcome back.” I don’t look up at her, because if I do, I feel like I’ll scream. Instead, I opt for pretending I hadn’t heard. The awkward silence that follows is so thick in the room that I feel like it’s actually choking me somehow. “Would you like to explain yourself, or should I ask you questions?”

   My eyes don’t meet her face yet, but they linger on her desk. There’s no pictures of family or friends, nothing personal. “What do you want to know?” I ask, almost sarcastically. It hurts to force words out, and my chest is aching.

   More silence. Then, “I’d like to know why you and Thomas Green decided to break out.”

   I should have woken up Thomas in the car to get our story straight. All I knew was that he told me I was in danger. I made the choice to trust Thomas, and even if that was a bad decision, I won’t throw him under the bus and tell them it was his idea. Do I have to say anything at all?

   “Have you spoken to Thomas yet?” I ask, looking down at my hands. My head feels full and light at the same time, and I can feel a headache forming behind my eyes.

   “I can’t disclose that to you,” she says. Since when is she the queen of morality?

   “Is he awake now after you guys drugged him?” I ask sharply.

   It takes her a moment to respond. “I was told that you were found by a friend of nurse Vince’s. Is that true?”

   “Yes,” I respond simply. The story is that Vince had told Eric about our escape, and he happened to recognize us by the hotel. It’s not the best cover story, but it’s all we could come up with short notice.

   “Can you tell me anything about your escape?” Ava Paige asks. If she doesn’t believe our cover story, she doesn’t say anything.

   I don’t want to tell her about what we know yet. If we’re crazy, can’t that just be my answer? What will they do if I don’t tell them anything? “I didn’t want to be here anymore.”

   “Why is that?” she asks. I can hear voices in the hallway, and the sound of my breathing is loud in my ears. Before I tell her anything, I need to talk to Thomas. “We found your journal, Newton.”

    _Now_ I meet her gaze with fiery eyes. I can feel something spike through me, and the terror makes me dizzier than I already am. “Did you read it?” My heart is beating fast, and time slows as she takes her time answering.

   “We had to,” Dr. Paige says calmly.

    _No, no, no, no._ She _can’t_ have read it. I feel the blood draining from my face. Why did I leave it in my suitcase when I know they’d take it? How could I make such a big mistake?

   “What happened to saying the journal was personal? That it wouldn’t be checked?” I ask. My voice is raised, but I don’t care. This could be disastrous for me, for Thomas, for _everyone_. I try to quickly think back to what I wrote, and who I mentioned.

   “It’s different in a case like this,” she says. I understand Thomas’ freak out in group a lot more right now.

   “Why are you asking me questions when you read my journal? Didn’t that explain enough?” I ask angrily. I want to get up and throw my chair. I want to run away. But my limbs feel like jelly, and I once again feel like I’m going to throw up.

   “I wanted to hear it directly from you,” she says. I’m fuming. I can feel tears burning behind my eyes from frustration as she leans forward. “Leaving with Thomas was extremely dangerous. He’s in here for a reason, Newton. He could have gotten you seriously injured, or even killed.”

   “This is coming from the woman who poisoned Winston?” I yell. I’m shaking from the influx of emotions, but my voice is steady.

   “Thomas doesn’t know what he saw. He has hallucinations—delusions. You do know that, don’t you? Has he told you why he was put in here in the first place?” Ava Paige tilts her head, and she looks so unsettlingly at ease that I _wish_ she’d scream at me.

   I want to tell her that she’s wrong, but her last sentence make the words catch in my throat. Thomas never told me what happened to land him in here. I’ve wondered, but I never asked. What could it possibly have to do with this?

   I’m about to speak when the phone on Dr. Paige’s desk rings. She looks at me, then picks it up. “Yes?” I hear muffled talking on the other end, then she takes a deep breath. For a moment, I think her mask will crumble, but it doesn’t. “Alright. Send her into my office.”

   She hangs up, and I look at her in confusion. Who is she sending in here at a time like this? I’d figure our meeting was important, given the fact that she actually took me aside instead of just having me talk with Janson. Does _he_ even know about what was in the journal? What Ava Paige is doing?

   “I think we should speak more tomorrow,” she says after a few moments. I’m wondering if she means that she wants me to leave when there’s a knock at the door. Dr. Paige stands up behind her desk. “Come in.”

   I hear the door open, and I turn to see a nurse being shoved out of the way by someone. A woman. _My mother._

   “Mom?” The words come out as a whisper as she spots me. I don’t have the time to process her presence before she’s kneeling in front of me and I’m in her arms.

   The guilt and relief I feel battle in my chest, and they both seem to be winning. On one hand, everything feels better with her here. She can take me away from TIMI and Ava Paige, but do I even deserve it after what I did to her? I squeeze her tighter as I think about what I must have put her through. With everything going on, how could I be so selfish?

   She pulls back and holds my face in her hands, me instinctively reaching up to hold her arms. Her eyes search me—for what, I don’t know. I missed her. I missed her a _lot_. Until now, I hadn’t even realized how much.

   “I’m sorry,” I say. My voice is trembling and I have to choke the words out, the tears spilling over. I’ve completely forgotten that there’s anyone else in the room.

   Mom pulls me into another hug, and I hold her like my life depends on it, squeezing my eyes shut as I sob into her shoulder. I’m a horrible son. I’ve caused her so much pain, and I repay her for taking care of me by running away and not even telling her where I am?

   “Why did you go? Why did you run away?” Mom asks, pulling back once again.

   “I was in danger,” I say quickly. I don’t care about the consequences of my words now, all I care about is my mother. She deserves answers more than anyone else.

   “Danger? What kind of danger? Did someone threaten you?” she asks frantically.

   “It’s complicated,” I say. How much can I really explain right now? “But I had to leave, Mom. They’re bad.” I can only get a few words out at a time through my tears, and I’m surprised she can understand anything I’m saying.

   “Who’s bad?”

   Remembering that we’re not alone, I look up at Ava Paige. She’s stone, and I point to her now, locking eyes with her as I speak. “TIMI. Ava Paige, all of them.”

   My mother looks at Dr. Paige, standing up to be at her level. “What does he mean? Did you try to hurt my son?”

   Ava Paige shakes her head, looking away from me. “The only danger to your son was Thomas. He’s delusional, and he told Newton things that aren’t true in order to get him to leave.”

   “She’s lying,” I say, gaining my mother’s attention back. “I _saw_ the pill. Thomas didn’t make it up.”

   “What pill?” Mom asks. Ava Paige furrows her eyebrows.

   “I’m not in charge of your medication, Newton. I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Ava Paige says. She says it so effortlessly, it’s almost like she believes it herself.

   I’m practically past anger to whatever could possibly be stronger, and I let out a bitter laugh, trying to calm my crying. “You don’t know what I’m _referring to?_ You’re the one working with WCKD, you know _exactly_ what I’m talking about. I ran because you’re a monster.”

   “Newt, what do you mean? What did they do?” Mom asks.

   “I’m not safe here—nobody is,” I say desperately.

   “We’re not sure what Mr. Green told him or did to him, but I think he needs to be kept under close evaluation,” Ava Paige says. “They may have engaged in a criminal act, and if they did, he’ll be an involuntary patient.”

   “What does that mean?” Mom asks.

   When Dr. Paige speaks, I could swear I see a hint of a smile on her crimson red lips. “It means that he’ll have to stay until we deem it safe for him to leave.”

  
  
  


I get my suitcase back in my room later with everything ‘dangerous’ removed from it. A very hesitant looking nurse brings it in, leaving it next to my bed as I watch him with a blank stare. He watches back like I’ll pounce on him any second until he sees my cast.

   Staring at the walls, I wonder if I’ll be in here as long as Thomas has been. I’ve asked several times—once to Ava Paige, another to the nurse that brought me dinner, and anyone else I saw in between—in these last seven hours if I can see him but I know how pointless that is. My journal might be in my suitcase, and I know I should look at it, but I can’t bring myself to.

   My mother left after arguing with Dr. Paige over my status as an involuntary patient.

    _“So he can’t come home? I couldn’t take him out?” Mom asked._

_“Not until we see fit,” Ava Paige said._

   As of when she left, I don’t know who she believed. I don’t blame her—I was so hysterical that I must have looked a bit crazy. But I have to have faith that she’ll trust me. What else can I do but sit around and wait?

   My door opens, and a small irrational part of me expects it to be Thomas. But, as my luck would have it, it’s yet another nurse. He comes over to me with two cups, and my heart falls into my stomach.

   I’m handed the water and my pills, and I look down at them. There’s a pill in here that I _cannot_ take. How am I supposed to avoid the medication from WCKD?

   A conversation I had with Thomas when I first got here comes to mind. _You gotta learn where to hide them,_ he’d told me. I wish now that I’d asked where he hid the pills he didn’t take.

   I shakily take out one of the safe pills while the nurse watches me, popping it in my mouth and taking a small sip of water. One by one, I take the good pills, stalling as I try to figure out what to do.

   When I have four pills left, an idea strikes me. I put the cup down between my legs and take out two pills—a good one, and the bad one. As I pull them back from the cup, I slide the bad one down my palm. It still seems too obvious, so in a momentary stroke of genius, I cough hard, spilling a little of the water on the bed.

   My adrenaline is rushing as the nurse looks over at the water and I quickly drop the bad pill down between my legs behind the cup.

   “Sorry,” I say after, lifting the good pill up to my mouth now.

   I’m able to take the rest of them in peace, then the nurse takes both cups from me and asks me to open my mouth and show him both of my hands. I do both with no problem, but if he’d asked me to stand, _then_ that would be an issue.

   Once the nurse leaves, I discreetly—on the off chance I’m being watched—take the pill from under my thigh and put it in my pocket. I’ll flush it down the toilet later.

   After a minute, I finally open up my suitcase. My journal is sitting on top of everything else, and I’m almost surprised to see that it’s there at all. I take it out first and quickly open up to my last entry, skimming the lines.

   Some of the things in here aren’t great. I talk about agreeing to go with Thomas, I talk about the hotel and meeting Winston’s mother. I talk about WCKD and Ava Paige, and how I could have been poisoned. But I didn’t mention Vince, and Ieft out a few of the details we know about Winston. That, and Thomas’... _theory_ about me.

   I go to put the journal back in, and two more things catch my eye while I set it down. There’s an ache in my chest as I stare at them, eventually picking them up and putting them on my lap.

   Thomas’ hoodie and the plush shark he won me are soft in my hands, and I hold them close to me, closing my eyes tightly. All I wanted was to get better for my family. How did it get this complicated? Who do I have to get better for if I’ve already destroyed my family?

   I’ll never be normal. I’ll never get to be that average teenage boy I thought I someday could be. I’ve known it for a long time now, but with Thomas, it somehow felt possible. Even if it was just for a moment, the hope was enough to fuel my imagination and let me believe it. Was it all just a lie?

   I hug the items close as I cry. I cry for my lost future. I cry for my family. I cry for Winston. I cry for Thomas. I cry for every kid in this place that’s at the mercy of Ava Paige and WCKD. And lastly, I cry for me. The me before TIMI—the boy who never got to cry; and me now—the boy who feels like he might never stop.


	36. thirty six

Waking up with anxiety has got to be one of my least favorite feelings. I’d almost rather have the numbness of waking and feeling empty. The racing of your heart and mind is disorienting, and while you’re tired it’s nearly impossible to ground yourself. I find the shark toy first, and that doesn’t help at all. I’m wearing the hoodie. I have to search my memory to figure out when I even put it on.

   My eyes are shut tight when they bring me food, and although my appetite couldn’t be worse, I eat it anyway. It helps with my dizziness, but I have to pace myself to get it down. Being in here is partially nice because every second alone is a second not spent talking to anyone about what happened.

   But it’s also time to be alone with my mind. It’s like setting someone’s house on fire and then locking them in a house across the street. You know there are bad things happening, but you can’t see it or do anything about it. It’s not a comforting thing to be trapped with the knowledge that my family is falling apart and my friends are in danger and I’m helpless.

   At ten, someone comes to my door and tells me that it’s medication time. Apparently I’m allowed out of the room to take it today. They wait as I get into my chair, and my movements are sluggish. I’ve only left the room once today to go to the bathroom, so I haven’t physically done much and I want to keep it that way.

   I’m snapping my fingers when the nurse starts to wheel me out of the room, and I borderline feel like I’m about to implode. I close my eyes again on the way up to the line for the medication window, and I wish I’d just fall asleep again.

   I can’t remember the last time I woke up to a normal day. It would had to have been the day I fell in school—the day that got me sent here—but what was the last _truly_ normal day? When I woke up, got out of bed without counting my steps, and went on about my regular life with my regular parents and regular friends?

   “Newt!” I open my eyes to see who’s calling my name, and I find Minho and Jeff running towards me. They’re yelled at by a nurse, and Minho huffs but apologizes before they continue walking forward.

   They get to my side and before any of us can get a word out, my nurse jumps in. “Get in line,” he says.

   “We’re about to. Newt, we heard you were back, what happened? Where’s Thomas? Where were you guys?” Minho bombards me with questions that would be ridiculous to answer right now.

   “Back of the line,” my nurse says. I’m almost grateful, because as much as I like Minho and Jeff, I don’t feel like answering any questions.

   “Fine. Talk later, Newt,” Minho says before stalking off with Jeff at his heels. I’m not sure if “later” will ever come.

   For now, I brainstorm ways to hide the pill I can’t take.

  
  


I hide it in my gums, and it works. I’m sweating profusely the whole time I’m up there and my hands shake, but I manage to do it. I sneak the pill into my pocket and successfully disguise it as a cough as I’m rolled away, making a mental note to flush it later. Unfortunately, in typical fashion, my luck is extremely short lived.

   Dr. Ava Paige is walking right up to my chair, effectively blocking us from moving down the hallway. I guess it’s too late to pretend I haven’t seen her, since my eyes meet hers as my heart somehow sinks even lower.

   “Newton, I’d like to see you again in my office to talk some more,” she says. I take a sharp breath, and my head feels like it’s been filled with thick liquid.

   Nothing more is said to me. I’m handed off like a baby to Ava Paige and we head right to her office. I’ve got a stomach ache, and I’m only realizing it now. What’s my mom doing at this moment? Looking into ways to get me out of here? Is she with my dad? Are they fighting?

   As I’m wheeled in front of Dr. Paige’s desk, my mind is anywhere but here. I want to get better. I’d rather have ten straight hours of therapy than this. I’m tapping my foot and counting my breaths, because what else can I do?

   She sits behind her desk and I glare at her. What else does she want to say to me? I want to ask to call my mom, but the thought of home makes me feel sick. Then again,  _everything_ makes me feel sick nowadays.

   “Let’s start with the night you left,” she says. “Why did you feel that there was no other way to leave than escaping?”

   “ _Why?_ I’m a prisoner, _that’s_ why,” I snap, finding my voice.

   “You’re not a prisoner here, Newton,” she says.

   “Then why did you tell my mom that I can’t leave?” I ask. It certainly doesn’t seem like I can go whenever I want, so what else can you call it?

   “If you committed a crime, you’ll be considered an involuntary patient, and since you’re still on watch from your accident, it’s best for your own safety that you continue treatment with us,” Dr. Paige says. If I didn’t have to do it ten times, I’d roll my eyes.

   “What crime did I commit?” How is she so sure I committed a crime? Unless leaving was a crime, what is she accusing me of? If anything, _she’s_ the one in trouble with the law.

   “For starters, what was your mode of transportation?”

   “We didn’t steal a car, if that’s what you’re asking,” I say. I can’t tell her about Vince’s car, _that’s_ for sure. It hits me that Thomas drove without a license. Could _I_ get in trouble for that?

   “And the hotel?”

   My face pales. “That was Thomas’ money.”

   “Where did he get that much money?” she asks. I feel like the room is spinning.

   “He told me it was his child support money,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady.

   “Don’t be so sure about that. Thomas is not a mentally stable person. That’s the reason he’s here. He _needs_ to be,” she says. I don’t want to respond. “You’re here to get better, and our job is to keep you safe and help you do that. Nothing more, nothing less.”

   “Yeah? Is that what you did for Winston then?” I ask. Her face doesn’t budge—it never does—but she hesitates.

   “Winston was a horrible tragedy, but unfortunately that does happen every once in a while,” Dr. Paige says.

   I let out a humorless laugh, because how else can I respond to that? “Thomas saw your letters from WCKD pharmaceuticals.”

   “Thomas doesn’t know what he saw. He may have seen letters from them, but he wouldn’t understand what they meant. I think what really happened is that Thomas feels guilty for Winston’s death and is looking for something else to blame it on,” she says.

   I’m silent for a minute. I don’t want her to be right, and I don’t trust her. If putting my faith in Thomas was a mistake, could I even take that? He’s all I have right now; the only thing that makes sense. That can’t be taken from me too.

   “He’s not crazy,” I say quietly, not sure if I’m trying to convince her or myself.

   “Do you know how he got here?” This is the second time she’s offering me the information. The question I’ve been asking myself since I met him. How horrible would it be of me to find out behind his back? I’m not sure he’d ever tell me on his own.

   I’m shaking my leg furiously now, and my brain is counting so rapidly that it’s hard to concentrate. I used to think Thomas was a mystery, and the other night after he told me all those things about himself I thought maybe he wasn’t such a mystery after all. Sure, I know his favorite foods, but things like how he got to TIMI are still completely unknown to me.

   I tell the truth. “No, I don’t.”

   “It was a long time ago. Over two years, I believe. He was living with his mother and his little sister. He’d been experiencing mood swings and hallucinations for a while, along with a few other symptoms. His mother tried the best she could to get him care, but she was limited due to her income. He started getting worse at fourteen and he’d go through episodes, but nobody was ever endangered. Not until one particular night,” Ava Paige starts. I’m already regretting this. I shouldn’t be listening to her. I shouldn’t let her continue.

   But I do. “We’re still unable to get a clear version of the story from him, but his younger sister was able to tell us everything she knows. It was night, and she heard Thomas screaming in his room. She went to check on him, and he was crying. When he looked up to her, she said it looked like he didn’t recognize her, and he was speaking incoherently,” Dr. Paige says.

   I avert my gaze. The next part of this story will be anything but good, and the fact that it’s _her_ telling it only makes it worse. I can see the look on his face from yesterday—was it really only yesterday?—so clearly in my mind. The expression that tells you immediately that something is wrong.

   “She reached out to him, and he lashed out at her. His mother was luckily right down the hall and got Brenda—his sister—away from him before he could do real physical damage, but he’d gotten so close to it that she had him put here. Who knows what would have happened if his mother wasn’t there?” I’m hearing a ringing in my ears, and I stare blankly at the wall behind Dr. Paige. There’s this one chip on the paint right next to one of her filing cabinets. “He could have seriously injured his own sister. He could have done the same to you—maybe even worse.”

   I want to tell her about the blemish on her wall, and ask if there’s a way to fix it. It’s so obvious, how didn’t I notice it there yesterday? She seems like the type to want things pristine, why hasn’t she seen this and done something about it?

   “Newton, are you listening to me?” Dr. Paige asks.

   My face is burning so hot that it makes my eyes tear up, and I have to blink a few times—four, then ten—to stop it. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, not taking my eyes off of the wall.

   If I look at her, I’ll think. I’ll think about Thomas nearly killing us on the road. I’ll think about Thomas freaking out on his sister. I’ll think about the fact that I never saw any proof of the WCKD letters. I’ll think about Thomas being one of the only people I thought I could trust. I’ll think about the fact that he knows more about me than anyone, and I can truly be myself with him. I’ll think about how—

   I cut my mind off from the next thought that was going to spill into my head. How could this all be my Thomas? How could I trust him so much that I’d let him _drive_ me? I knew he had hallucinations, how could I be so stupid?

   “I’m listening,” I say angrily. I’m not sure if the anger is directed at her, Thomas, or myself. Maybe all of the above.

   “Thomas is a wild card. He’s tame enough to be with everyone else for most of the time, but if he’s set off, it’s not good. He’s smart, and he’s more than capable of manipulating people. We’ve been searching for a proper diagnosis for him for years, but we haven’t found a good match, especially being as young as he is,” Dr. Paige says. My head hurts, and I focus on the pain to drown out her voice.

   “So you’re trying to tell me that everything Thomas said he saw was a lie?” I ask, pinching the bridge of my nose.

   “A paranoia and guilt based delusion,” she corrects me. “One that he sadly wasted Mrs. Flores’ time on, I’m afraid.”

   “Then what happened to Winston? And why was I put on medication from WCKD pharmaceuticals?” I ask, finally looking up.

   Dr. Paige does a small head nod. “Winston’s death had nothing to do with me or WCKD pharmaceuticals, and if you’ve got a question or concern about your medication, we’ll work with you.”

   “Okay, then I want to be off of that pill,” I say, grabbing the opportunity while I have it. Would she really just take me off of it?

   She tilts her head, looking at me. “How have you been feeling on it?”

   I go to tell her that I’m fine as an automatic response, but I stop myself. _This could be my out._ “Bad. Shaky,” I settle on.

   “I’ll discuss with Dr. Janson, then,” she says, after a prolonged moment. I would thank her, but I don’t really have much to be grateful to her for. Silence fills the room for a minute, but my head is anything but quiet. “Newton, we’re not evil. I know you’ve formed a bond with Thomas, but don’t let him get in the way of your recovery.”

   She has no idea.

  
  


I’m wheeled into the bathroom by another nurse after my encounter with Ava Paige. I need to get rid of the WCKD pill before someone finds it on me. That’s about the _last_ thing I need at the moment. I already have enough going on, and so much on my mind that I can only think of one task at a time or I’ll lose it.

   My hands. That’s what I’m distracting myself with, and they’re the reason I don’t look up right away. I’m just counting my fingers, thanking the universe for giving humans ten digits. It’s perfect, and it’s enough to keep me focused on anything but the other people in the room.

   It’s enough until, out of the corner of my eye, I see something that I can’t ignore. Against my better judgement, my eyes move before my brain can stop them. Then, I’m not entirely sure if I would have been better off keeping my head down.

   Thomas is looking right at me, only a foot or two away. It appears that he was about to leave, but is now stopped in his tracks. Two nurses stand at his side, and now the wall of people is blocking us from continuing on.

   When my nurse tries to keep my chair moving, I put my good foot on the ground, stopping it. I count the one loudly in my head, then stand, making it two.

   “I can walk from here,” I say, my voice finally coming out a few seconds after I wanted it to.

   I’m in front of him, and his nurses are telling him something but I don’t pay attention. Right now, I have tunnel vision, and Thomas is all I see.

   He looks unkempt and tired, with dark eyes and hair matted to his forehead. It’s hard to believe that it’s the same boy from the amusement park when he looks like this. It’s hard to believe that boy even _existed_ at some point. When I try to find him in my memory, I see Thomas lashing out. I see him blank and emotionless.

   Thomas smiles. Impossibly, he smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but he does it nonetheless. It’s a ghost of an emotion. Maybe two days ago it would have made me feel like everything was going to be okay.

   “I’m glad you like the hoodie,” Thomas says, his eyes flicking down to it. I almost forgot I had it on. “It looks nice on you.”

   I open my mouth, but it stays like that because I’m baffled. I’ve always had a problem with being paralyzed when shocked, and this is one of those times. I’m entirely unsure of how I feel, and I don’t _want_ to feel anything.

   I want all of my feelings to go away. The hurt, the confusion, and the feelings that are so far from anger that they scare me. What am I _supposed_ to feel? One thought seems to be reigning over them all. _I trusted him, and he let me down._

   He goes as quickly as he appeared, and without another word. I look after him, and he turns back to see me with the haunting smile still painted on his lips before he’s out of sight.

    _Two._ I was on two.

  
  


It’s the middle of the night when I feel the light tapping on my shoulder. I only just got to sleep too, I’d spent hours lying there mulling over all of my recent choices. It wasn’t a picnic, because I kept coming back to one thing in particular. Now that thing is sitting on my bed next to me.

   “What’re you doing in here? _How_ are you in here?” I ask in a loud whisper, rubbing my eyes and attempting to sit up.

   “How do you think?” Thomas asks, nodding towards the door. I look, and sure enough, I can see the back of a head of hair that looks an awful lot like Vince’s.

   “Thomas, just—you shouldn’t be in here. You’ll get us in more trouble than we’re already in,” I say.

   Thomas frowns. “It’ll be fine,” he says.

   “I’m glad _you_ think so,” I say, bitterness bleeding through my tone.

   “I had to see you, Newt,” Thomas says, ignoring my comment. Now that I’m more awake, I notice that his speech is slurred.

   “Are you alright? Did they do something to you?” I ask. We’re sitting so close that I feel Thomas’ hip up against my knee, and it reminds me of our closeness just the other day. I push the thought away.

   “They—um—they started giving me a higher dose of antipsychotics. I hate it, it makes my head feel heavy,” he says.

   “Why didn’t you just not take it then? Isn’t that what you always do?” I ask.

   “Yeah, but this time they injected me with it,” Thomas says, looking away from me. I want to be angry at TIMI for giving him medication he didn’t want, but what if it was necessary? What if he needed that dosage all along? “I called Mrs. Flores.”

   “What? Why?” I ask.

   “She told me that she showed the lawyers everything we said, but the process of doing something about it will take time. If they even listen to us, that is,” Thomas says. “We won’t let them get away with this. Whatever we need to do, we’ll get Ava Paige locked away.”

   My conversation with Dr. Paige repeats like a song in my head. _A paranoia and guilt based delusion._ If she’s right, it’s a delusion that could have gotten me killed. Who knows what else damage it can cause? If he’s wrong, Mrs. Flores will have been put through all of this for nothing.

   “Thomas, are you sure you know what you saw?” I ask.

   “What do you mean?” Thomas asks.

   “With Dr. Paige’s letters, do you know what you saw?”

   Thomas shakes his head, his breathing becoming heavier. “What did she tell you? What did they make you believe?” he asks desperately. “I thought you trusted me.”

    _I thought I did, too._ “I just think that maybe—”

   “Maybe I’m crazy? That I _didn’t_ see everything Ava Paige was doing? You _saw_ the pill they gave you, Newt. You _saw_ it,” Thomas says. His words are still somewhat delayed, and the franticness of it makes it all makes it sound like he’s drunk.

   “I know I saw it, but Dr. Paige is taking me off of it. How can that be bad?” I ask. In the moonlight, I can see Thomas’ eyes glisten.

   “So you trust her now?” Thomas says a lot louder than he should.

   “Lower your voice,” I whisper.

   “ _Do you?_ ” he asks again, not doing what I asked.

   I look at the door, then back to Thomas. My heart is beating fast, and my stomach is in knots. The one person I had left that made me feel less alone. The one person that made me feel like I could get better. Now he’s gone too.

   “Blindly trusting you almost got me killed, Thomas,” I say softly. No part of me wants to say it, and no part of me wants it to be the truth. But it is.

   Thomas stares off into the corner of the room, a tear slipping down his face. The irrational part of me wants to hug him; apologize and tell him I still trust him. But when the past few days come back in flashes, I just want to be alone.

   I get my wish when Thomas stands up and walks out of the room, not once looking back.


	37. thirty seven

I’m starting to believe I’ve lost my fight. For one, I’ve _literally_ lost. But other than that, my drive is nearly gone. What’s the point in fighting when I can’t trust the person I was fighting with and it might have all been a lie anyway?

   With all of that in mind, my attempt to get better should be my main concern. But I just can’t find it in me. It just seems pointless—it _all_ seems pointless. I can’t tell them that, of course. That’ll just extend my stay, and I’m not sure how much longer I can take it here. Faking it until I make it might be an option. Then again, faking walking normally will end in me being paralyzed, so maybe it isn’t.

   It’s been two days since I last saw Thomas, and two days of trying to forget it happened. But in solitary, I don’t have many options. All I can do is stare at the wall and think. When I _do_ get to speak to someone else, it’s a nurse or Dr. Janson. Even then, I never hear a word they say and I don’t say anything to them.

   Until something catches my attention. “You remember my rules of cooperation, right?”

   I look up at Janson. “Don’t hold back and keep an open mind?”

   “Very good. So why aren’t you following them?” Janson asks.

   I sigh, since I see no point in being overly polite anymore. “I am,” I lie.

   “You’ve barely said a word this session,” Janson says.

    _Maybe it has something to do with being depressed._ I have many things I could respond with, but the question—however off topic—that rises above everything else is one I can’t believe I haven’t asked yet. An important one. “When you told me to be careful with Thomas, what did you know?”

   Janson gives me a hard stare. I start getting nervous that I shouldn’t have asked that, but he starts speaking. “What do you know about Thomas’ time here before you arrived?”

   “I know he was here for two years, I know how he got here, and I know that he tried to escape once,” I say. I’m sure he knows all this, so I feel comfortable sharing what I know. Although I’m not completely sure what the betrayal line is nowadays.

   “What do you know about the time he tried to escape?” Janson asks.

   “Not much, just that it landed him in solitary,” I say. He claimed to learn from his mistakes. I’m thinking that was a lie too.

   “He hadn’t been here long, and he was a very odd case. His first week, he was unresponsive. Didn’t say a word to anyone, and would have regular episodes of yelling and crying. But by his second week, he switched gears dramatically. He was making friends, talking in group, and the only thing that was seemingly out of the ordinary with him was when he’d hallucinate,” Dr. Janson says.

   It’s hard to picture Thomas back then, new and unaware of what was to come. He must have been so scared after what happened with his sister, and to then be taken away from your family and put in this big scary place? It’s horrible for a child to go through. My OCD got bad around the same time he got here, and I can’t imagine having been sent here at the time.

   “Thomas opted to take the classes we offer. He was doing well at the time, and had a few friends, as I said, but he quickly became close to one boy in particular. This patient was in recovery, and had his discharge date already,” Janson continues. He lifts his eyebrows at me for some kind of emphasis, then goes on.

   “During class one day, Thomas was sitting by the exit doors while the other patient was closer to the middle of the room. Close to the end of their time, the other boy stood up at his table, and lit the papers on top on fire.” My eyes shoot open wide, and I hate that Janson almost looks pleased at my reaction. “Immediately following that, Thomas stood up from his table and ran for the exit, since the person guarding it left their post to tend to the fire. It set off an alarm, but Thomas ran anyway.”

   “How far did he get?” I ask.

   “The nurse ran after him, and Thomas didn’t stop running for a while. A security guard manning the main building started too, and Thomas ran across the street and almost got hit by a car. Then, they finally caught up to him, and he pulled out a pair of scissors,” Janson says.

   “How did he get scissors?” I ask. It sounds like the wrong question to be asking, but it’s a genuine one. Scissors are big time contraband, and asking this helps me avoid thinking about the fact that Thomas was ready to harm the nurses for doing their jobs.

   “Since the boy Thomas made friends with was about to leave, we weren’t as strict with our rules for him. Somehow, Thomas talked him into getting matches and a scissor for him. Thankfully, the scissor was knocked out of his hand before he could do real damage. But a couple of patients were injured because of the fire Thomas convinced the other patient to set,” Janson says. “It sent one of our patients, Gally, to the hospital.”

   My stomach is in knots. Gally’s hatred for Thomas makes a lot more sense now. “Is that why you hate Thomas?”

   “Thomas is my patient. I don’t hate him,” Janson says. “But he doesn’t respond to treatment. If he wants to get better, he needs to cooperate. I’m sure you know what he does—talks about the other patients. But he isn’t focusing on himself.”

   I’m silent for a moment. Thomas still doesn’t know what he has. He’s still lost. Is he not responding to therapy because he doesn’t think it can help? Or because he’s afraid?

   I don’t want to talk about Thomas much anymore. “What happened to the patient that set the fire?”

   “His parents took him out of here,” Janson says.

   “Wait,” I say too quickly. “How did they get him out? If he was violent and hurt people, wouldn’t they force him to stay?”

   Janson studies me. That may have been a mistake, but I need to know the answer.

   “There was a hearing and an evaluation, but his parents got him out,” Janson says. So there _is_ a way to leave. He narrows his beady eyes at me, and I pinch at the material of my sweatpants. “Why don’t you want to get better?”

   “I do,” I say. It’s _all_ I want. Why else would I have agreed to come here? But after everything that’s happened, I’m just tired. That’s all. Just… tired.

   “Before you try to leave TIMI again, can you give this one more chance?” Janson asks.

    _Before you try to leave TIMI again_. I guess I wasn’t so discreet. But he doesn’t seem mad—more disappointed than anything else.

   It’s crazy that his question should confuse me so much. It sounds simple, but is anything but. The truth is, even after seemingly endless lonely hours thinking, I don’t know how I feel about _anything_. I don’t know how I feel about TIMI, Thomas, or even recovering. Do I trust TIMI or think that they’re out to hurt me? Do I fear Thomas after everything I know about him now?

   The reality of Janson’s story starts to kick in. Thomas manipulated a kid into starting a _fire_. That could have killed someone, especially in here. No wonder Janson told me to be careful, he was probably afraid that I would become Thomas’ next pawn. Was he right? Is that all I was?

   One thing that bothers me is the question of why Thomas tried to help me. Was that just to get me to trust him? I want to say there was nothing to his theory. Write it all off and tell him he was wrong. But just thinking about it makes me feel sick. Especially after everything that’s happened with him since… the last time the topic came up.

   There was one thing he said in particular that stuck with me. One point he made that I can’t seem to make sense of.

   “Could someone’s OCD stem from needing control over… something like feelings?” I ask, ignoring his question.

   Janson raises his eyebrows at me. “Of course,” he says. “That’s the most common case. You feel you can’t control a certain aspect of your life, so you control things like how many steps you take, or the colors you wear, or how you eat your food. It distracts from where you feel powerless.”

   “But how can you not realize you’re doing that? How is it possible that all of this is done subconsciously?” I ask.

   “Is there something you don’t feel in control of, Newton?” Janson asks.

   I clench my jaw, averting my gaze. How am I supposed to answer that when I’m not in control of _anything_ right now? Even down to something as simple as walking? “I don’t know.”

   “It’s okay to tell me how you feel, I’m a licensed doctor who’s job is to help you,” Janson says. Obviously I know he’s right, but trusting him is still difficult when there are so many unanswered questions. Is it worth it to try? Am I even staying here? He leans back, eyes still trained on me. “The subconscious is a powerful thing. It can heavily influence every aspect of your life, and you’ll have no idea why until you dig deeper.”

   I look up at the clock. Our session is over.

  
  
  


Before I left my session, I demanded a phone call to my mother before dinner. I know I’m in no position to make demands, but I figured it was worth a shot. By some miracle, Janson agreed to let me, so now I’m on my way to the phone. My eyes dart back and forth, looking out for any of the Normals. I’m not exactly sure what I’d do if I saw one of them, but I look nonetheless.

   I’ve done a lot of thinking over the past few hours.

   I want to get better. Recovery was the only reason I agreed to come here. But I don’t think I can do that in TIMI—not anymore. I’ll cooperate, I’ll do everything I can to find out what’s wrong with me, it just can’t be in a place like this. The only flaw with my plan, is that I don’t think I’ll like the home I go back to. It’s possible my parents have not only given up on each other, but me too.

   As for trusting TIMI, I’m still on the fence. I still feel like a prisoner here, but doesn’t everyone? Maybe Thomas was wrong about them. Maybe he wasn’t. Either way, I don’t want to be here anymore.

   Vince takes me to the phone, and I thank him quietly before he walks away to give me space. He hasn’t mentioned Thomas—or _anything_ that happened, for that matter—since I got back here. It’s understandable. I don’t want to talk about it either.

   I pick up the phone and a nurse picks up, so I tell her my mother’s number and she connects me. As it rings, I look around. There’s only two other people in here. One of them is crying, the phone pressed up against his ear while he aggressively rubs his leg with his hand. The other is smiling peacefully, asking the person he’s speaking to about what I’m assuming is a pet.

   “Newt?”

   “Hi,” I say, fidgeting in my chair. It’s good to hear my mom’s voice.

   “Sweetheart, how are you feeling? I’m so sorry they made me leave, I didn’t—”

   “It’s okay,” I interrupt her. “I think there’s a way to get me out of here, involuntary patient or not.”

   “There is. Your father and I have been doing research and we can try to sign you out. They can either let us, or we can have a hearing where we prove that you no longer need to be there. We’ll get you out. I promise.” She sounds like she’s tearing up. That’s all I make her do now.

   But they’re coming through for me. My parents are coming through for me. Maybe I _do_ still have a family. Maybe they really haven’t given up on me.

   “I love you, Mom,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut to keep myself from joining her in crying.

   “I love you so much, Newtie. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

   It’s too late for me to keep myself from crying now. I manage a goodbye, then shakily hang up the phone.

   “You alright?” Vince asks, coming up behind me. He starts wheeling me away while I wipe at my eyes and try to collect myself. Crying won’t help me.

   “Fine,” I say, following a sniffle.

   My parents and I will have to prove that I don’t need to be here anymore. That shouldn’t be so hard, right? I don’t look or sound crazy—until I have to walk. But even then, I’m not dangerous to myself or anyone else, am I?

   As we turn the corner to the solitary hall, my stomach drops. They have things against me. The fact that I haven’t improved. The fact that I’m not cooperating in therapy. The fact that I let myself nearly get run over. The fact that I ran away with Thomas and possibly aided a number of crimes, along with almost getting killed _again_.

   There’s a few things I need to know. The sooner the better.

   “Vince?” I ask, as we reach my door.

   He opens it, then wheels me in. Once I’m inside the room, he stands to face me. “Yeah?”

   I take a deep breath, trying and failing to calm my anxiety. “I need a favor.”

  
  
  


It’s just after three o’clock in the morning when Vince opens the door for me. I still wonder why he helps, but I’m not going to question him. Maybe he was manipulated by Thomas the way everyone else seems to have been.

   Something I’ve noticed since I got back is that the air is so stale here. It’s even worse in solitary somehow, and when I’m wheeled into the room, it’s almost hard to breathe. Then again, that might just be the dread weighing on my chest.

   It’s dark in here, and the only light I have is from the moon that’s only barely shining through the bars on the window. I make out the bed, and the figure in it seems to be sleeping. He could use the rest, I’m sure. I almost feel bad for wanting to wake him, but he owes me this.

   “Do you want me to leave you alone?” Vince whispers so low that I can barely hear. I’ve only just deciphered what he said when it happens.

   “Don’t bother.” My head snaps in the direction of the voice, my heart in my throat. Thomas rolls over so he’s facing us, his eyes somehow finding me perfectly in the darkness. “Get out.”


	38. thirty eight

I can’t tell if I’m more hurt, or frightened. Both feelings are definitely in there, but as I look at him, I don’t know which one is dominating.

   Then, something hits me. Usually, in a moment like this, I’d be frozen. I’d lock down, unable to speak or move. But right now, I don’t feel that at all. Following the initial wave of emotion after Thomas tells me to leave, something different spikes in me. Anger.

   “I need to ask you a few questions, and I’m not leaving until you answer them,” I say, my voice hard. Lately, I’ve been getting used to the sound.

   Thomas sits up in his bed, propping himself up on his elbow. “Why would you believe me? You’re TIMI’s pet now, right? I’m sure they told you all kinds of things about me. You told me you don’t trust me, so why are you here?”

   His speech is still sluggish, and while his words sting, the way he’s saying them hurts worse. I feel a sense of responsibility for how he’s being treated, despite having less than nothing to do with it.

   I look up at Vince. “You can leave us,” I say.

   “Are you sure?” Vince asks.

   If I was normal, I’d nod. “I’m sure,” I lie.

   Vince looks at Thomas, then back at me. “Alright.” He looks like he’s going to say something else, but instead walks out, leaving us alone in the room.

   I look back to Thomas, and try to speak in a leveled enough volume that’s loud enough for him to hear, but quiet enough for _only_ him to hear. “I need to know where you got the money.”

   “What money?” Thomas asks. After a moment, the confusion that twisted up his face fades. “Oh. I told you—child support.”

   “Are you sure about that?” I ask.

   Thomas switches his position to be sitting on the edge of his bed, legs dangling off. I wish I could walk over to him, or at least roll, but Vince isn’t here to push me and I don’t feel like discovering a new routine for me right now.

   His face is illuminated better now sitting like this, and he narrows his eyes at me. “What did they tell you?”

   “About what?” I ask.

   “About me,” Thomas says.

   Maybe if we sit in silence long enough, he’ll forget he asked the question. I stare at the ground, searching for an answer. At this point, what would lying do for me?

   “They told me about the time you tried to escape,” I say in a small voice. I look up at him. “And how you got here.”

   “Is that right?” Thomas asks, his tone flat.

   I’m afraid to answer. “Yeah.”

   “And you just believed everything they told you,” Thomas says, his voice cracking at the end. He doesn’t phrase it as a question—more of an accusation than anything else.

   “What else am I supposed to go off of, Thomas?” I ask, the flare of frustration returning.

   Thomas is silent for a moment. “They don’t know a thing about me.”

   “Because they’re bad at their jobs, or because you refuse to tell them?” I ask.

   Thomas’ look is piercing. If I angered him, I’m not sure if I’m sorry or just glad to get that out. We sit in more uncomfortable nothingness for a few moments, and then it becomes so long that I almost consider calling Vince in to help me out.

   Then, Thomas speaks. “Why do you need to know about the money?”

   I’m tapping my knee in tens, and throughout the silence, I could feel a strange warmth spreading up my neck. Now, I’m trying not to think about the unsettling feeling and focus on Thomas’ question that I don’t want to answer.

   “I need to know because I’m trying to leave,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady.

   Thomas tilts his head. “Why? Because they’re dangerous? Because you still don’t trust them?” There’s a hint of hope in his tone, and crushing that definitely doesn’t sound like something I want to do.

   “I just—” I can’t tell him he’s wrong. “I can’t get better here.” Am I a hypocrite?

   “None of us can,” Thomas says. “We’re children. We should be home.”

   The words feel physically painful to the point where I have to stop myself from wincing. “I know it works for some people, but at this point, I don’t think I can recover like this.”

   “It does, but TIMI is different. Janson is a joke, Dr. Paige is corrupt—it’s a miracle any of us are still alive. Once I turn eighteen and they make a case against me…” Thomas trails off, before abruptly looking down at his hands, his face out of view from me now. He lets out a small, sad laugh. “If you get out, send me a letter and let me know how the outside world is every once in a while.”

   The worst part is that I know he isn’t joking. “You’re going to get out. I know you will,” I say.

   Thomas gets up after a moment, startling me. Then, when he starts walking over, I wish I could shrink back into my chair completely. Dissolve into it, maybe become it somehow. Logically I know there’s no reason to be afraid, but the suddenness of it sets my nerves on edge.

   He surprises me by passing me, and before I know it, he’s wheeling me over to the bed. I don’t say anything. I’m allowing this little bit of trust.

   You can always tell when someone’s been crying. Not only do they have the puffy eyes and nose, but there’s also just a certain look on their faces. I know it well, after looking in the mirror so many times. They look droopy, like everything on and in them has been dragged down, and smiling would look painful and never reach their eyes.

   That’s the look I recognize on Thomas as he sits down. Now that I’m closer, I’m seeing more that I didn’t notice from so far. How is he losing so much weight? He’s the one who told me how important it is to eat what they give you.

   “Have you been eating?” I ask quietly after a moment.

   Thomas just looks up at me through hooded eyes. “It was my money. I had Vince get it for me.”

   “You didn’t answer my question,” I say.

   “Yes, I’ve been eating. You don’t need to tell me how bad I look,” Thomas says. “Now you need to know these things if you want to leave, right?”

   “Yeah,” I say.

   “My mom put money away for Brenda—my sister, unless they already told you that too—and me. My father is as good as dead. He stopped paying child support, then dodged us and the lawyers. But what little he _did_ pay, and whatever else my mom managed to save, went into that fund. I think it was for college, but that’s never going to happen,” Thomas admits.

   “If it’s yours, why didn’t you tell me that?” I ask.

   Thomas starts fidgeting. “I-I didn’t tell her I was taking it.”

   “How much did you take?” I ask.

   “All of it,” Thomas says, avoiding my eyes. “I knew the account information. I had a card.”

   “Thomas…” That is _so_ illegal. I’m not an expert, but I’m going to assume I’m right about this one. He stole money off of his mother.

   “I was going to pay it back,” Thomas says. “She won’t do anything about it if she notices.”

   “How do you know that?” I ask. Does my part count as aiding Thomas in a crime? I know that if someone found out about Vince, _he’d_ be in big trouble for it. I’m silently thanking my luck that I’m a minor, but does that even matter?

   “She just won’t. Play dumb. They can’t find out you know, so just, um, stick with the child support story,” Thomas says. It almost looks like it’s difficult to talk for him.

   “Is there anything else I should know?” I ask.

   “The less the better, don’t you think?” Thomas asks. There’s more dead air. Then, “Newt, can you promise me something?”

   I furrow my eyebrows. “Yeah?”

   It takes Thomas a second to get his words out. “Don’t give up on yourself once you leave here.”

   Out of everything he could have said, that’s not what I was expecting. “I won’t.”

   “I mean it. Y-you can be okay. I know you can get better.” Thomas stops, taking a shaky breath before he continues. “Keep going to therapy. Find someone good, and don’t lie to them.”

   “I will,” I say. There’s an ache in my chest, and I don’t know why it’s there.

   “Remember everything I said,” Thomas says seriously.

   Here’s the question again—why was Thomas trying so hard to help me? Is it really because he just happened to care about me?

   Then there’s the other question. I don’t know how many more opportunities I’ll get to talk to Thomas alone, and this is certainly something I don’t want to ask with others around. Taking advantage would be a smart thing to do, right?

   Something’s been bothering me.

   “Can I ask you something, then?” I ask.

   “Go ahead,” Thomas says.

    _It’s okay to ask this. It’s just a question. It doesn’t change anything._ “If me being…” I trail off. _Just say it._ “If me being gay caused my OCD, then why didn’t kissing you fix me?”

   I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to breathe after stumbling through my words. I’ll be lucky if he even heard me.

   “Being gay didn’t cause your OCD, and it’s not about knowing,” Thomas says. I force myself to open my eyes. “It’s about accepting yourself and the things you can’t control, Newt. Some things, you can’t escape.”

   The warmth from before has spread up to my face and down my arms, and it feels like I’m burning. Is this anxiety or embarrassment? “How do you do that?”

   “You have to be ready,” Thomas says. “I’m sorry.”

   “Sorry for what?” I ask.

   “I pressured you before you were ready. I got too caught up in trying to understand you, and that wasn’t fair of me,” Thomas says. He says it like he’s thought about it before. Like a prepared statement.

    _But you were right._ “It’s fine.”

   “It’s not,” Thomas says, shaking his head.

   “What if I’m ready now?” I ask. I don’t know if I am. Probably not. But I don’t want to get into this with Thomas right now.

   “Are you?” Thomas asks. I try to give him a yes with my eyes to avoid lying. “Then I can help before you leave. It’s a process—you won’t be gone by tomorrow. We have time. Then, you can continue with someone in outpatient.”

   He looks excited by the thought of helping. But Thomas tries to help _everyone_ , doesn’t he? Janson told me himself that Thomas spends his sessions discussing the rest of us. But why does he help us, and refuse to help himself?

   “Can we make a deal then?” I ask. Thomas nods, so I continue. “I’ll let you try to help me. But only if you let them try to help you.”

   “I told you. They can’t,” Thomas says.

   “Try. Please. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong. There’s no harm in giving it a shot,” I say.

   Thomas runs a hand through his hair. “Fine. But I know they can’t do anything for me.”

   “Thank you,” I say.

   “So you’re going to let me help you?” Thomas asks.

    _I guess so._ “I am,” I say.

   “Are you hesitant because of me, or yourself?” Thomas asks. I must not be as good of an actor as I thought.

   “Both,” I answer truthfully.

   “I can’t change what I’ve done,” Thomas says. “But I can try to do better.”

   Suddenly, something clicks.

   “I know,” I say, after a slight delay to let my brain race through a theory.

   “I don’t know what they told you about me, but I’ll tell you my side, alright?” Thomas says. His voice is soft, but desperate. It’s the kind of sincerity you can’t fake.

   “Are you sure?” I ask.

   “I have nothing to lose,” Thomas says. He looks to the door. “Vince should probably take you back, you’ve already been here too long. Did they tell you about tomorrow yet?”

   “What’s tomorrow?” I ask.

   Thomas gives me the hint of a smile. “They’re taking you out of solitary tomorrow. Tell Chuck I say hi.”

   “I will,” I say, before Thomas gets up and crosses the room to the door. Vince comes in after Thomas opens it up a bit more, and crosses the room to get behind my chair.

   He wheels me over to the door, and Thomas holds the handle to open it up.

   “Night, Newt,” Thomas says. The almost casualty of it is almost funny.

   “Night, Thomas,” I say.

   Thomas smiles sadly, showing off the hollowness of his face. “I liked when you’d call me Tommy,” he says, before opening the door.

   Vince pushes me through before I can come up with a response.

  
  
  


I lay awake in the morning thinking about Thomas. At around five, I woke up from only two hours of sleep from before I went to see Thomas and maybe an hour after, and anxiety has kept me up ever since.

   A few things he said keep playing over in my head. _Some things, you can’t escape. I can try to do better._ The words clicked together in my mind like pieces of the puzzle that is Thomas Green.

   I think I finally understand why all he does is try to diagnose everyone else. Why he’s so focused on helping his friends here.

   Escaping. That’s all it’s ever been about for him. He’s trying to escape his diagnosis by talking about the rest of us in therapy. He’s trying to escape the guilt of what he did to that other boy by trying to help us. If I’m right about this, we’re not a game to him. We’re not his pawns. We’re his redemption.

   I don’t know who the enemy here is anymore. First I thought it was TIMI, then I started to wonder if it was Thomas. But now I’m starting to think it’s not all that black and white.

   Thomas has made a string of bad decisions, sure. But at the end of the day, he’s never had bad intentions. That must count for something. And while he endangered me a few times, he also saved my life. I can’t forget that.

   My door opens, and I jump.

   Thankfully, it’s just Vince. “Hey, kiddo. We’re gonna move you back to your room with Chuck, but for now you can go to breakfast with everyone else.”

   It’s odd. The first day I’m allowed out, I don’t want to go. I’m tired, and would kill for another two hours of sleep. But I know resisting won’t get me anywhere. From now until my hearing, it’s nothing but good behavior.

   Vince leaves to let me get dressed—basically just putting on a different shirt—and then wheels me out of the room. As we’re nearing the cafeteria, a realization strikes me.

   “What day is it?” I ask.

   “November fourth,” Vince says. I was right. “Why?”

   “It’s been a month since I got here,” I say, the words settling into my brain as I tell him.

   I didn’t know how long I’d be here when I arrived. In my mind, I figured it could be anywhere from three days to the rest of my life. I can’t honestly tell how much time it’s felt like so far, but I know it’s been the longest month of my life.

   Vince doesn’t say anything else as we make it to breakfast, and I’m thankful for it. I’m not in a chatty mood today. More of a wish-I-was-in-a-coma mood. Then I’d finally get some uninterrupted sleep.

   I’m wheeled into the dining hall, and wow, it’s been a while since I was in the dining hall. But nothing has changed. The Normals sit in their usual spots, there’s the usual chatter of the others and the nurses standing guard at the tables. No, nothing’s changed.

   Except for the one thing—well, _person_ —I notice now. He sticks out like a sore thumb, so I’m not sure how I didn’t as soon as I came in.

   Someone new is sitting just a few people down from the Normals.

   As Chuck notices my entrance and begins to excitedly call me, it’s background noise. Because now, he’s staring back at me.

    _Gally_.


	39. thirty nine

_Run while you can._

   Thomas and Gally. Those were the first two people I saw here. But the last time I saw Gally, he was pushing Thomas in the street.

   Now here he is, sitting at the table poking at a plate of food. I notice there’s a nurse standing awfully close to him. He must be considered high risk to be with the rest of us, but apparently it’s safe today.

   I’m at the table now, so I have to snap out of my trance. But I can still feel Gally’s eyes on me, making it difficult to concentrate on the Normals.

   “Newt! Get up here,” Chuck says, bouncing in his seat as Vince comes around to help me up.

   When I finally get up to the bench, I finish my ten steps while everyone asks me a bunch of questions I can’t distinguish between. Thankfully, Chuck waits for me to finish snapping my fingers to hug me as best as he can from my right.

   “Um,” I start, looking out to everyone else as I wrap an arm around Chuck. “What’s new?”

   “What kind of question is that?” Minho asks. “You’re the man of the hour over here.”

   What would Thomas say? “So catch me up quick.”

   “Actually, there are a few things,” Aris says. I’m surprised it’s him that speaks up.

   “What’s that, then?” I ask. Anything to postpone giving them explanations I don’t have.

   “Fry’s got his discharge day,” Aris says, with a small smile.

   “Really? When is it?” I ask. Hearing the news relieves some of the darkness in my mind. Someone’s getting out of here.

   “November fifteenth,” Aris says.

   I start to get uncomfortable after doing the math. That’s eleven days away. I tap my foot in tens under the table, but I know it won’t balance it out. Now I want to sleep until tomorrow even more than I did before.

   “That’s amazing,” I say, trying to let all of the enthusiasm I have shine through. I’m excited for him, absolutely. But it’s not easy to show in my state of pure exhaustion.

   “I’m leaving too,” Zart says, grinning.

   “Sure,” Minho says.

   My plate is placed down in front of me, and I look up. “Fry, I’m so happy for you. You worked really hard for this,” I say.

   Frypan gives me a nod. “Yeah. Thanks, Newt.”

   He walks away, and now I’m uneasy. That wasn’t exactly the warm response I was expecting. Did I say something wrong?

   “Is he alright?” I ask, turning to the rest of the group.

   Those of them that care or hear me begin to look uncomfortable. “Yeah, he’s fine,” Minho says. “He’s just not a big fan of people not working the program.”

   Any appetite I may have had is lost. “Is he mad at me?” I ask.

   “No,” Chuck says, shaking his head.

   “Just disappointed,” I say, as more of a statement than a question. The momentary lack of a response is all the confirmation I need.

   “Fry likes you. He wants you to get better,” Minho says.

   “Well, what do the rest of you think? Are you upset with me too?” I ask. My tone sounds slightly harsher than intended. The real emotion there is sadness—the last thing I needed was my only other allies here hating me.

   “We don’t even know what _happened,_ ” Minho says.

   “I didn’t leave to try to escape working the program, if that’s what you guys thought,” I say. I left because Thomas told me I was in danger. If they were me, they would have done the same thing. “What do you guys know?”

   “We saw you and Thomas fight in the rec room, then first thing in the morning there was a bunch of commotion. They didn’t tell us what was going on, as usual. But we overheard them interrogating the nurses working that night,” Minho says. “Your mom came in later.”

   My chest tightens at the thought. “So you knew Thomas and I were gone?”

   “Yeah, man. We didn’t know what happened. The fight shocked us all, and especially after—” Minho cuts himself off. “We just didn’t know what to think. So what happened?”

   I feel that pair of eyes on me again. Quickly glancing to my right out of the corner of my eyes, I confirm that Gally is eavesdropping. Will talking about Thomas set him off?

   “It’s a long story, but we left because…” I trail off. I have no good excuse that isn’t the exact reason. Nothing will sound like the truth. I lower my voice. “We didn’t think we had another choice.”

   “What the shuck does that mean?” Chuck asks loudly. I shush him without thinking about it.

   Then, I remember something I needed to ask them. “Have any of you been put on a new medication in the past few days?”

   “What does that have to do with anything?” Minho asks.

   “Please just answer,” I say, pleading with my eyes.

   “No, none of us have. The lawyers asked us that too,” Minho says.

   “Lawyers? Mrs. Flores’ lawyers?” I ask.

   Jeff nods. “They asked us a bunch of questions, and that was one of them.”

   So the lawyers talked to the Normals already? “When did you guys talk to them?”

   “Yesterday,” Aris says, jumping back into the conversation.

   “What did they ask?”

   “Things about Winston. What he was like; if we saw him take his medication. I’m pretty sure we all had different answers for that one,” Jeff says.

   “Then they asked about _our_ medication, and if we ever heard of something called—”

   “WCKD?” I cut Minho off.

   “Yeah, that was it. How do you know?” Minho asks.

   “So nobody has any new medication? Nobody has a pill from WCKD?” I ask.

   I get nos from everyone around the table, and then my eyes land on Gally again. He’s still looking at me, and doesn’t seem very uncomfortable having been caught doing so. Does he know something?

   I decide to ask the first opportunity I get, but not now—now is when I learn as much as I can from the Normals. I’ll deal with Gally later.

   “So you and Thomas left together? Where did you go? What did you do?” Chuck asks.

   I turn to him. “It’s a lot to explain,” I say, after pondering how to answer the question. I could spend the whole day explaining, but some things are better off unsaid. Especially if Thomas was wrong. “Thomas says hi, by the way.”

   Chuck smiles up at me. “Have you seen him?”

   “Yeah,” I say. “I ran into him in the bathroom.” It’s a lie, but just a small one. Not that that matters anymore.

   “I miss him,” Chuck says.

   How has Chuck been without Thomas here? Have his night terrors gotten worse being on his own? I hadn’t thought much about leaving Chuck without his roommate or best friend in here until now.

   “He misses you too,” I say. I turn to Minho then, and try to lower my voice as much as I can. “How long has Gally been here?”

   “Since the day after you got back,” Minho says, with a shrug. “He doesn’t do much.”

   I give him a wary look. Let’s hope that stays the same when Thomas finally gets out of solitary.

  
  
  


I’m surprised to see that Gally’s in the rec room when I’m wheeled in by Chuck. He’s in the corner reading a book I think I recognize from one of my middle school classrooms, and there’s a nurse standing close by. Not so close that it’s uncomfortable, but close enough to know he’s there to watch Gally.

   “Hey, Chuck,” I say, trying to get his attention.

   “Yeah?” Chuck asks.

   “Can you put my wheelchair over there?” I ask, pointing to a corner with no chairs over by Gally’s side of the room.

   “Sure.”

   As he wheels me over there, I search my mind for questions. More than that, I try to find a good way to even approach him. What’s a good icebreaker? “ _Hey, you’re the reason I’ve got this cast”?_

   Chuck parks my wheelchair, and I thank him before I stand, counting the two steps it takes to get out and on my feet. I feel bad that I’m about to ditch him yet again to go talk to Gally. But I did spend a large portion of breakfast listening to him talk about the art project he was doing for his schooling.

   The other part was spent finding more creative ways to dodge telling them what happened when we left. In reality, I’m not sure what would happen if I told them exactly we did. I’d leave out Vince, of course. But everything else would raise too many questions. Either that, or it’s too personal.

   I’m going to let Thomas take care of figuring out what the Normals should know. For now, I’ll just keep giving them vague answers—despite how annoyed Minho gets. I’ve already got Fry mad at me, might as well have the rest of them join in.

   I take a step in Gally’s direction, and then I feel Chuck’s hand on my arm.

   “C’mon, Newt, let’s sit over there,” Chuck says quietly, eyeing Gally presumably to warn me of his presence.

   “I’ll come over by you in a minute, Chuck. Promise,” I say, trying to be as reassuring as I can while being this nervous.

   Chuck’s nervousness for me isn’t helping. “Okay.”

   He walks away, and leaves me to limp towards Gally. My steps are smaller with the cast on, so I’ve only just gotten to where his nurse is standing when I have to stop to snap my fingers.

   As soon as I start, Gally’s head snaps up from his book to my direction, and I almost jump in response. I look up at his nurse, and he doesn’t say anything, but his eyes do all the talking. Clearly, nobody thinks me talking to Gally is a fantastic idea.

   Gally doesn’t say anything either. He just watches me complete my tens, then awkwardly walk forward another four steps to get by him. _Here goes nothing._

   “Do you mind if I sit here?” I ask. The rest of the room is it’s usual commotion of chatter and the TV, so I can talk normally without worrying about it being broadcasted to the whole group. It’s the only mentally easing thing I can think of about this.

   Gally shakes his head, but now I can’t tell if he means that he doesn’t mind or if it’s not okay. His face is hard to read, but he doesn’t look necessarily angry or afraid, so I sit down, leaving one chair between us.

   Once I’m sitting down, I tap out another four steps, having taken two others to get in the chair. I still haven’t decided what to say first, so I snap my fingers while I think about it. Should I just jump into my questions? Should I ask him how he is? What if—

   “OCD?”

   My thought process is interrupted when Gally speaks from next to me. I finish my last three snaps, turning to him. His voice is a lot softer than I remember it. Then again, all I’ve heard him do was yell.

   “Yeah,” I say. Now that I’m seeing him up close, there’s a _lot_ about Gally I hadn’t noticed before. When his face isn’t twisted in rage, he looks awfully young. Another major thing I haven’t seen is something that wouldn’t have made sense to me a few days ago—a burn mark going down from his chin to his jawline and neck. It looks almost healed, so it’s only a little red, but it’s large. “I’m Newt.”

   He looks me up and down a few times. I can’t tell for sure, but I think his blue eyes land on my cast once or twice. “Gally.”

   “It’s, um, nice to meet you,” I say, trying not to cringe at myself.

   “I met you, too. You flew. Drew. Learn with burn. Your turn. Cab to the lab,” Gally starts babbling after the the first two words, and I look up at his nurse once Gally looks away from me. _What’s he saying?_

   “Word salad,” the nurse says to me quietly, as Gally stops talking.

   I turn back to him. He doesn’t seem to know or care that he just went on about nothing, so I decide to try again. “Can I ask you something?”

   “Yeah,” Gally says.

   “When I first got here…” I start. I then glance at the nurse before leaning in closer to Gally, lowering my voice. “You told me to run while I could. What did you mean?”

   “I don’t like it in here,” Gally says.

   “Why?” I ask, before realizing how dumb of a question that is.

   “I don’t feel safe here,” Gally says. He looks at the TV, then back at me.

   “Have they given you any new medication recently?” I ask.

   “They have,” Gally says.

   My heart races. I wasn’t actually expecting a yes. “Do you know anything about WCKD pharmaceuticals?”

   “No,” Gally says. “They just gave me a new pill, and they said it’ll help.”

   “When was that?” I ask. If he hasn’t taken it already, I can tell him how to hide it. But if he started today, what can I do?

   “A few weeks ago,” he says.

    _Weeks?_ How could that even be possible? “Do you know anything about the medication?”

   “They never said,” Gally says, giving me a small shrug.

   “How have you been feeling on it?” I ask. He definitely is a lot different from how I imagined he’d be in a conversation. A lot more… mellow.

   “Different,” Gally says. He’s speaking with the same sluggish pace as Thomas, and his eyes never meet mine for more than a few seconds at a time.

   “Different how?” I ask. I’m afraid to press, but he seems alright. Well, more alright than I’ve seen him.

   “I’m tired,” Gally says. “Some symptoms, some don’t,” he says. Some symptoms _what?_

   “Do you like the pill? Is it bad?” I ask carefully.

   Gally narrows his eyes at me, and I lean away from him. Maybe I spoke too soon about him seeming alright. “You don’t have to talk to me like that.”

   “Like what?” I ask.

   “Like I’m a child,” Gally says.

   My face softens. “Oh,” I say. I hadn’t realized I was doing that until now. “I’m sorry.”

   “I’m used to it,” Gally says. “I feel off. That’s all I know.”

   I feel like a jerk now. I’m just as bad as everyone else I complain about. “Thank you for telling me,” I say timidly.

   It takes him a moment to answer. “They told me they’re letting me be with everyone else because of the medication, so it can’t be that bad, can it?”

   I’m entirely unsure of how to answer that. “I don’t know. Maybe not,” I say. “So why don’t you feel safe?”

   Gally clenches his jaw. “They tell me I’m delusional, but I know I’m not. I hate everyone in here and I haven’t felt safe since—” Gally cuts himself off, looking off to his right.

   I follow his gaze, and I find Ava Paige. She’s standing in the hallway, so she’s far away from us, but I feel a pang of fear. I still don’t know how to feel about her, but at this point too many bad memories are associated with her not to be a little frightened in her presence.

   Gally, however, looks petrified.

   “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is it Dr. Paige?”

   “She’s going to come in here,” Gally whispers shakily, still not taking his eyes off of her.

   I watch Ava. She stops and addresses a nurse, then nods and moves on to the medication counter, poking her head in for a moment. Then, she goes to the door beside it, unlocks it, and walks in.

   “I don’t think—”

   I’m cut off by Gally abruptly standing up beside me. He looks at his nurse, clutching onto the book he was reading. “Can I go?”

   “You’re supposed to—”

   “ _Can I go?_ ” Gally asks again, more forcibly this time.

   The nurse sighs, then walks over to Gally, who seems to have forgotten I’m here. He guides the way, and they exit in a hurry, leaving me playing it over in my mind. If Gally’s on this medication, he must know more.

    _How is he still alive?_

  
  
  


“What’s word salad?”

   “A symptom of schizophrenia. Your thoughts go so fast that you start to string together a bunch of words that make no sense to anyone else,” Thomas says, playing with a plush toy of Chuck’s. “Why do you ask?”

   He came into my room about ten minutes ago—just after one. We haven’t spoken about much yet. It’s not quite as awkward as I was expecting. He asked about my first day out of solitary, so I told him about seeing the Normals again. Then about group and Fry’s discharge date.

   Group was basically uneventful. Ava Paige welcomed me back, then quickly regretted it after everyone started asking where I was. It took what felt like a year to get them to quiet down. Then everyone started sharing, and I chose to skip my share despite Ava’s icy stare.

   The thing I’ve avoided telling Thomas about so far is my encounter with Gally. I know Gally’s a sore spot with Thomas, so what if bringing him up would be a mistake? What if it set him off?

   But Thomas needs to know what I learned. It’s obvious he’s not giving up on the idea that TIMI is evil. If I have any information, I’m going to give it to him.

   “I talked to Gally before.” I try to sound casual, but I can’t help the cautiousness in my voice.

   Thomas’ eyes widen. Is that anger? Fear? Confusion? “How?”

   “He’s out with everyone else,” I say. “I went up to him—”

   “Are you okay? What did he say? Why is he out? Did he try to hurt you?” Thomas rapid fires, and I instinctively shake my head to stop him.  _Six more._

   “No, Thomas, it was alright. I just asked him a few things. But one of the times he just started with the whole… word salad thing. He said I flew, something about a burn, it being my turn, a lab—so that’s all rubbish, then?” I ask.

   “Not to him,” Thomas says. “So, what? He’s just fine? After everything, he’s just walking around here? Why didn’t Vince tell me about this?”

   I knew bringing it up was a bad idea. “Probably because of how upset you get around Gally.”

   Thomas takes a deep breath, looking like he's trying to calm himself. “Was there a point in talking to him?”

   “Yeah, actually,” I say. “He said he doesn’t feel safe, and then I asked him if he was put on any new meds recently.”

   “And?” Thomas asks. I shouldn’t be dragging this out.

   “He said he was put on a new one a few weeks ago. They didn’t tell him what it was, and he said he’s felt different since then,” I say.

   Thomas’ face goes blank. “Different how?” Thomas asks. Same thing I asked.

   “He said he’s been off,” I start. I tell him everything Gally told me, then throw in his reaction to Ava Paige. It seems odd enough to mention, but I don’t necessarily blame Gally. I don’t know how to feel about her, but maybe there’s a reason Gally seemed so terrified.

   “That’s…” Thomas trails off. “How could Gally still be alive if he’s on the drug from WCKD?”

   “That was my question,” I say. “Wouldn’t it be the same thing they gave you?”

   “I don’t know,” Thomas says. “But we need to find out why Gally’s as scared of Ava Paige as I am. He knows something.”

   I go to tell him I agree, but something stops me. Am I really going to drag myself back into this? All I want is to leave, right? To get better?

   “Thomas?” I ask. Thomas tilts his head. “I saw Gally’s burn marks.”

   His eyes go dark. “You’re blaming me for that.”

   It doesn’t sound like a question, but how am I supposed to answer that? “I didn’t say that.”

   “Everyone blames me for it. What’d they tell you? I lit him on fire?” Thomas asks. Before I get the chance to answer, he clarifies. “I didn’t.”

   “I know you didn’t,” I say. _Not directly, anyway._ “You said you would tell me things from your side, right?”

   “Yeah, I did,” Thomas says, rubbing his face with his hand. “What’d they tell you?”

   “They told me you… you had another patient set a fire so you could escape,” I say.

   “Blake,” Thomas says. “His name was Blake, and he was my friend. Do you want to know why?”

   “Why?” I ask.

   “He was the only person that believed me when I said I wasn’t crazy. That I shouldn’t be here. He said he wasn’t crazy either,” Thomas says. “He said he knew things about this place, and that he’d help me. So, we became friends.”

   “So why did he agree to help you escape if he was so close to leaving?” I ask.

   “We had a plan,” Thomas says.

   “But—”

   “I never told you I’m proud of it,” Thomas says, his eyes piercing. “I was scared, and I was new. There was the least amount of security in our class room, so I saw the opportunity. I needed a… um.” Thomas stops his sentence abruptly.

   “Distraction?” I ask.

   “Yeah,” Thomas says. “Blake was able to get scissors and matches, so I told him if he just started a small fire on the table, they’d put it out before anything happened and they wouldn’t even have to know it was him.”

   “Then how’d they find out it was him?” I ask.

   “The idiot made a show of it. I didn’t ask him to do that, and on top of it he threw the match onto the table. The fire wasn’t supposed to grow that much, and they were supposed to put it out before anyone got hurt,” Thomas says, tripping over his words more than usual from the speed of his talking.

   “Then why the scissors?” I ask.

   “I was fifteen, Newt,” Thomas says, as if that makes it alright.

   “Fifteen is old enough to make the decision not to hurt people,” I say as calmly as I can manage.

   “I wanted out. It was more of a threat than anything else, but when they grabbed me—” Thomas shakes his head. He sniffles, and it makes me realize his eyes are brimming with tears. “You don’t understand how it felt to be ripped from your family with hardly any understanding of why. You don’t understand what it was like to be thrown in here like a criminal. To feel hated by the only people in the world you thought loved you, and to want nothing more than to be with them.”

   That stuns me into silence. So, while I think of something to say, I take the shaking boy in my arms and hug him. He hugs back immediately, and I can feel him holding his breath, tensing to try to prevent sobs. I’ve done it enough to recognize it.

   “I’m so sorry, Tommy,” I say quietly into his shoulder. All I can do is apologize.

   Thomas manages a few shaky breaths. “Me too.”

   He doesn’t let go, so I don’t let go. What would I want someone to say to me right now if I was him? “Don’t try to hold yourself together for me. It’s alright. I’m here.”

   Thomas squeezes me tighter, and after a few moments, his body untenses a bit. I do the same, not having realized I’d done it in the first place. I’m past thinking that this should feel weird to me. With most people it would. Thomas isn’t most people.

   He pulls away, and he looks out the barred up window, sniffling. “Can I show you something?”

   “Show me what?” I ask.

   A small smile plays on Thomas’ lips. “My favorite spot in this place.”


	40. forty

Saying yes to Thomas’ question turns out to be a long and complicated journey, made even more difficult by the fact that I’ve got a cast and OCD.

   Apparently, the janitor’s closet by the phones has nobody by it at night. What it _does_ have, though, is a massive teenage boy sized vent. I mean, it’s not _comfortable,_ obviously. But it works.

   “You good, Newt?” Thomas asks, as I carefully shift myself so I’m leaning on my good side. That’s two steps out of the chair, two steps to get down onto the ground, three into the vent. _Seven._

   “Not really,” I say, looking down at my hands because, well, Thomas is directly in front of me.

   “You don’t have to do this. But I know you can. It’s not far, and all you have to do is follow me,” Thomas says.

   “I’ll be here, as usual,” Vince says from behind me. He’s standing in the corner of the closet, undoubtedly staring down at us disapprovingly. When Thomas told him what he wanted to do, he didn’t sound thrilled. Now I understand why.

   “I’ll do it,” I say. I’ve made it this far, so might as well.

   “We’ll be back in a few, Vince,” Thomas says quietly.

   “Be careful,” Vince says.

   “Always,” Thomas says.

   With that, we crawl through, my cast hitting up against the vent every two seconds, making me grimace. Every ten moves forward, both of us stop so I can snap my fingers, muffling them against my shirt to do so. Vents carry sound, and that’s not great for us at the moment.

   “Newt?” Thomas whispers while we stop for a third time.

   “Yeah?” I whisper back.

   “Why does crawling count?” he asks.

   I furrow my eyebrows as I finish my ten snaps. “What d’ya mean?”

   “I mean, why does crawling have to be something you do in tens? You walk in tens, but why crawl?” Thomas asks.

   “Well, I do everything in tens. Walk, shake my head, tap my foot, snap my fingers, wash my hands—why would crawling be different?” I ask.

   “Why can’t it be? Other things can be,” Thomas says, crawling forward.

   “Even if it could, I’m not trying that in the middle of a tight vent. But I don’t think it’s different,” I say.

   We stop again, and I expect Thomas to keep asking me about it, but instead, he changes the topic. “We’re almost there.”

   “How’s this even possible to be doing? How do you know how about the vents?” I ask.

   “A mix of Blake and Vince,” Thomas says. “Also, my own experience. I’m not that dumb. Well, I’m less sharp now on the antipsychotics.”

   We keep moving, and I want to ask him more about Blake, but I decide against it for now. It was hard enough to talk about his escape attempt. But I wonder where Blake is now. Is he back in a place like this? Or is he at home, living a normal life?

   After two more stops for my tens, we come to a turn. When we get to the end of it, I’m at four.

   Thomas shifts a bit and pulls something from his pocket that I can’t see in the dark. I can’t even see where we’ve come to a stop, because Thomas is blocking the way.

   I hear sounds of metal, then what sounds to me like a small explosion in the form of a crash, then a hissing noise from Thomas. He mutters a curse under his breath, then climbs out, letting me inch forward in the vent. I reach nine when I get to the exit, then I pause.

   “If you give me your hands I can help you out from there,” Thomas says, squatting down to look at me.

   I give him my hand, and he keeps me steady while I carefully slide myself forward, before putting my foot with the cast on the ground.

    _Great._ I pause again, snapping ten times with my other hand and looking down at the ground to avoid the awkwardness of acknowledging that I had to stop in the middle of Thomas helping me up.

   Once that’s done, I get my other foot on the ground and Thomas helps lift me. _One._

   “Here it is,” Thomas says with a smile, letting go of my hand to gesture around the room.

   Before I can really adjust my eyes, Thomas turns a lamp on, making my eyes widen.

   “Why would you do that?” I whisper loudly.

   “It’s fine, they won’t check the cameras in here unless something actually happens,” Thomas says, before going back over to the vent to close it. “If they did, I would have been caught a while ago.”

   I look around. It feels a lot different at night than in the day. Also, I don’t have the same anxiety. Of course I’ve got the anxiety of being here when I’m not supposed to, but it’s not the same as it is when I have to be here.

   “Why is Janson’s office your favorite place?” I ask. “It’s one of my _least_ favorite places, aside from solitary and Ava Paige’s office.”

   “Because it has _this,”_ Thomas says, before dramatically opening a door to the side of the room that I’ve never noticed.

   “What’s that?” I ask, limping forward four steps, making it five in total.

   “He keeps some stuff in here. Like our files,” Thomas says, with a wicked grin.

   “You can read your file?” I ask.

   “I read mine all the time. Janson’s not a fan of mine,” Thomas says, like it’s something to be proud of.

   “Can I see mine?” I ask.

   Thomas raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

   “I want to see how far off he is,” I say.

   Thomas disappears into the smaller room, and I keep looking around. Is this how Thomas knows so much about the other patients? Reading their files? If Janson actually is innocent, I wouldn’t love Thomas either if I were him. Breaking into someone’s office doesn’t exactly scream cooperation.

   He comes out a minute later, carrying two files. The one he hands me is thin, but the one he keeps is a lot thicker.

   “Most of his information is on the computer, but he keeps things like quick notes and medical stuff on paper. I haven’t been able to figure out his password yet, so we’re stuck with these,” Thomas says. “Well, and what I find in Ava Paige’s office.”

   I look at my name on the side, then open my file. The first things I see are a bunch of papers about my medications.

   “Wait,” I say, looking up from the file. “If there’s papers about our medications, then wouldn’t they have something on the pill from WCKD?”

   “Not here. I checked already. But they do exist,” Thomas says. I want to trust him, but Ava’s words keep popping into my head about him being delusional. “I’ll show you them, since you don’t believe me.”

   For a moment, I think I’ve said something out loud. He says it with a hint of bitterness in his tone, but I can tell there’s sadness behind it. Because he’s right. I don’t fully believe him. “I didn’t say I don’t believe you, I just—”

   “Did you find anything in your file?” Thomas asks sharply, cutting me off.

   I hold his eye contact for a moment, until eventually his gaze softens. He blinks a few times, then looks back down at his file. So I look at mine, flipping past the medical papers.

   There’s pieces of paper that look to be ripped from a notepad, and they’ve all got quick sentences scribbled on them. The first ones that stand out are things like ‘family issues’, ‘seeks control’, ‘people pleaser’, and my least favorite, ‘moved from home young’.

   “He’s got me wrong. Moving from home didn’t make any difference,” I say, clenching my jaw as I read it over.

   “What about everything else?” Thomas asks.

   I don’t want to admit that the others are true. How could I have spent so long trying to figure out what was wrong with me when it’s things that are so simple they could be written out on a piece of paper in two words?

   “Why didn’t I know any of this? If this is all true, everyone’s theories about me—how could I possibly be the last to know?” I ask, still flipping back through the words.

   I’m startled when Thomas is suddenly right in front of me, taking my file from my hands. “You know why things like therapy exist, Newt?”

   He’s awfully close to me. _Five._ I can practically see the number floating in front of me, and I get the urge to complete the ten. “Why?”

   “Because millions of people go through the same thing. Something is wrong or different, and they don’t know why. You’re just too close to it to see what that is,” Thomas says.

    _Five._ “So I’m too close to my problems to see what they are?”

   “Exactly. That’s why you have to uncover them and work through them in your head. Learn what’s bothering you and how to move past it,” Thomas says. He’s not moving away, and I don’t know if he’s even aware of it, but I am. “In your case, do you think it’s about accepting the fact that you can’t control everything?”

   He’s asking, but it’s not a question. It’s a statement. “How do you do that when you don’t even know it’s a problem?”

    _Five. Five. Five. Five. Five._ “It’s a mix of things. You need to know what it is you need control over. Then you can work on your routines and compulsions. I’d say you should go with ERP.”

   “Why do know so much about this?” I ask.

   “I had Vince get me a book on OCD,” Thomas says, shrugging. “I’d known a little before, but I wanted to know more.”

   Something in my chest softens. I didn’t realize my breathing had become uneven until now, but I try to calm it back down. “Why?”

   “To help you,” Thomas says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world that someone would go out of their way to try to help me.

   “That’s—” I shake my head. “Thank you,” I say softly.

   “No need to thank me. The pleasure’s all mine. I learned a lot, and I get to help you recover,” Thomas says sincerely.

   My eyes scan his face, and to try to fight the panic in the back of my mind, I ask a question. “What’s ERP?”

   “It’s exposure therapy. It’s not like talking therapy, it’s different. You expose yourself to what you’re afraid of, then try to prevent your response,” Thomas says. I furrow my eyebrows so he continues. “Like for you, you’d do something like washing your hands for seventeen seconds. Or shaking your head once, nothing more.”

   The mere thought gives me anxiety. It’s like his act of saying the things will cause anything I fear will happen if I don’t do my rituals to come true.

   “I don’t know if I can do that,” I say.

   “You’re not supposed to feel comfortable, that’s the whole point. But I think you can do it. I believe in you,” Thomas says, nodding. When the fearful look doesn’t drop from my face, he continues. “You don’t have to start with that, though. We can work up to it. First, you have to accept yourself and the world around you.”

   “I feel like I already do,” I say.

   “You feel like you can accept your family situation? The way you grew up, the way your relationships are?” Thomas asks. He’s asking softly, but the words almost make me wince. “Who you really are?”

   He doesn’t have to specify what he means. “My anxiety is telling me that I can’t.”

   “You will. Maybe not in this moment, but you will,” Thomas says. “You’ve already made progress.”

   “How? I feel worse than ever,” I say.

   “Do you want me to say?” Thomas asks.

   Now, everything I’ve ever done flashes through my head. How did I make progress? Where have I shown improvement? “I do.”

   “You’ve been able to postpone your tens and make up for them later. Your very first day you were able to restart a round. Nothing happened as a consequence,” Thomas says.

   I’d forgotten about his first example. _How could I have forgotten about that?_ The weight is back on my chest and in my brain. Suddenly, my legs are wobbly. “You’re wrong.”

   “How? Everyone is okay, everything—”

   “The divorce—my parents. Winston. They’re not okay. That was all after that first time,” I say shakily.

   “All of that was out of your control. Your parents had nothing to do with you, and either way they’d still be getting a divorce. As for Winston…” Thomas closes his eyes. “That was on TIMI. And me.”

   I walk backwards five steps, because there’s nowhere else to go, then snap my fingers. I’m being crazy. In the back of my mind, I can feel how unreasonable I’m being. Winston took a pill that was given to him by Thomas, and he died. But what if the universe was punishing me with my parents?

   “You said you’d reset it,” I mumble. “How did I let myself believe that makes sense?”

   “It makes as much sense as the rest of what you believe,” Thomas says, stepping forward. “You can’t control what happens. It’s not your job, it’s not mine, it’s not anyone’s. How you walk or move won’t change anything.”

   “I know that,” I say, because rationally, I understand all of that. It makes sense. But I can’t act on it.

   “You feel it’s the only thing you can do, right? That’s the only thing you have power over?” Thomas says.

   He’s right. I know he’s right. “It is.”

   “But the thing is that the power… it’s fake. The real power is taking control back from it and confronting what scares you. Learning not to fight the unavoidable things, and make the things you _can_ fight better. _That’s_ how you recover,” Thomas says. “I’m going to help you, because I know you can do it. You can take your life back.”

   I let his words run through my head a few times. All I have to do is just accept what I can’t change? That’s it?

   “How do I accept my parents getting a divorce because of me?” I ask quietly.

   “You have to talk to them about the reason. But other than that, that’s up to you. You helped as much as you could, but some things aren’t meant to be. All you can do is focus on the positive sides,” Thomas says. I don’t answer. “But I’d start with where it all stemmed from.”

   “The divorce?” I ask.

   “No,” Thomas says, shaking his head. “I mean what lead to your compulsions in the first place.”

   “You’re talking about Alby,” I say, my voice breaking.

   Thomas confirms my theory with his eyes. “Him. Your parents, too. All the things you feel you don’t have control over.”

   “I can’t change what happened with him. Or them,” I say.

   “I know you can’t. But you can make peace with it on your own, then when you get out of here, you can make peace with them,” Thomas says.

   Somehow, he’s moved to be nearly as close as he was before I stepped away. A flare of heat in my face makes me register how red I must be. It almost makes my eyes sting. I don’t think it’s embarrassment, but whatever it is gives me a dizzy feeling.

   “You’ll teach me how to do all that?” I ask.

   “If you’re letting me,” Thomas says.

   I scan his face, and I can feel myself trying to find problems with him. _I’m trying to push him away._ Am I trying to protect myself from this boy that’s done nothing but try to help me? He’s slipped up, but so have I. I want to be done with trying to escape. I want control over how _I_ feel for once.

   One careful step towards him. “Tommy—”

   I’m cut off by a sound. The sound of a door. Both of our eyes widen, and Thomas grabs my arm, turning off the light before we stumble over to the room with the files. When he closes the door quietly, I’m on nine. My heart is pounding in my chest, and Thomas only now lets go of me.

   A voice sounds as the door of Janson’s office opens. “I told you we needed to worry about it.” It’s Janson, and unless he’s as crazy as we are, he must be talking to someone else.

   “It wasn’t a concern until they started looking into WCKD.” That’s Ava Paige. I’m looking at Thomas and he’s looking at me. We’re close to the door, and I begin to wonder if that’s such a good idea.

   “How did you not realize that this would end badly?” Janson sounds angry, but it also sounds like he was aware of everything Ava’s been doing; even if he doesn’t approve.

   “Every drug is experimental in its early stages. It was never meant for Winston, so I don’t understand—”

   “Really? You don’t see what happened?” Janson asks.

   It’s silent for a moment. “That’s not our fault.”

   “Nothing is _our_ fault. It’s _your_ fault for sneaking a pill into their medication,” Janson says.

   I exhale quietly, realizing I’ve been holding my breath. Suddenly, I wish we were recording this. They’re basically confessing to everything, and I can feel how tense Thomas is next to me.

   “Gally, Kevin, Rodger, Harriet and Ximena are doing just fine on it, and I’m assuming Thomas is the one that gave Winston the pill so I wouldn’t know how he’s doing if he’s not taking it. But I know we can’t take any more risks with lawyers involved,” Ava Paige says. “What do we do about Thomas, then? And Newton?”

   Thomas and I are wide-eyed, and if he’s anything like me, mortified.

   “Like I just said, _we’re_ not doing anything,” Janson says.

   “If Newton leaves, who knows what he can do to us? This could cost us our careers, Janson,” Ava Paige says.

   I feel rage building up in me. Now I want to walk out there and scream at them for making me doubt myself. _Paranoia and guilt based delusion?_ Is she kidding me? On top of that, a kid is dead and she’s worried about their _careers?_

   “If the lawyers sue you, I don’t want you grouping me in on any of it. I’ve disagreed with you from day one. This drug isn’t worth it,” Janson says.

   “This pill could be the _future._ It’s already doing amazing things. Gally’s been out with everyone else without incident, his brain activity is astounding. Isn’t that worth the risk?” Ava Paige says.

   “No, you think the _money_ is worth the risk,” Janson shoots back.

   There’s a stretched out moment of nothing, but I can feel the thickness of the air. “I’m calling Mrs. Flores in the morning.”

   “I don’t think she’ll want to chat,” Janson says.

   “I’ll get a sense of what she’s thinking. Maybe if I explain things to her, she’ll drop the charges,” Ava Paige says.

   “Good luck with that,” Janson says.

   “You really should learn to cooperate when it’s good for you, Janson,” Ava Paige says.

   “I’m glad you kept me here late to tell me that,” Janson says. “Goodnight, Dr. Paige.”

   Thirteen seconds of silence—I’m regretting counting—before I hear the sound of Janson’s door closing. Then, a sigh. Soon after, Janson’s chair moving.

   Thomas has his eyes closed, and his jaw is hardened. I can only barely make him out, since it’s so dark in here, but we’re so close that I can see his face.

   I can hear Janson’s keyboard, and now I want nothing more than to get out of this stupid room. Or at least sit down, since my foot is killing me from standing on it so long. I carefully shift my weight onto my other foot, and then remember that I’m only on nine. _Nine._ One away.

   There is no way I can complete my tens right now. Even if I can take a step, I can’t snap my fingers. You could hear a pin drop in here right now. I might as well just yell and tell Janson we’re here.

   My chest gets tighter with every breath, and after a few minutes, it feels like I’m dangerously close to coughing. Instead, I swallow and try to take deep breaths.

   At some point, I feel the new sensation of Thomas’ hand on my back. I look at him, and he nods reassuringly. Obviously I don’t nod back, but I try to show him my appreciation with my eyes anyway, despite the darkness.

   His hand stays there for a few minutes, occasionally rubbing my back for a second or two at a time. I want to tell him that it’s okay, he doesn’t have to comfort me. But talking isn’t exactly an option, and he _is_ helping.

   We remain like that until we hear Janson’s chair again. I think I hear the computer make a noise too, then footsteps. How long have we been in here at this point? Vince must be worried.

   After we hear Janson’s office door close, neither of us move. Then, we hear the second door close.

   Thomas looks at me, then opens the door a crack. He peeks through, and before I can get too scared, he opens it all the way.

   He takes my file from me, then walks back to the filing cabinet and puts them in their drawers. “We have to get back. Quick,” Thomas whispers.

   While he’s doing that, I take a step out into the office, muffling my snaps against my shirt again. It’s a relief to finally finish the tens, like a small weight lifted from my mind.

   When he’s done, he walks back to me, closing the door to the smaller room after I move out of the way. _Two._

   He looks around the room, and I do too, making sure nothing’s been changed by us. When we deem it okay, he starts heading for the vent again. “You’ll have to go first this time, I need to close the vent up. I’ll direct you.”

   I limp forward eight more steps, then complete my tens. Obviously we need to hurry if Thomas isn’t even talking about what happened yet. If the goal is leaving this office, I’ve got no problem with it. Especially since I can’t even begin to wrap my head around the last hour.

   We slowly make our way back, and Thomas doesn’t say a word aside from telling me to go left, right or forward. I’m beginning to think he doesn’t want to talk about what happened at _all_ until we’re back with Vince.

   I barely have enough time to get out before Thomas is climbing through, words spilling out of his mouth as fast as he can probably manage. The only reason I can make them out is because I was there with him, but his speech has still been a little slurred.

   “Vince, it was them, it was Jan-Janson and Ava, they were talking and we were _right,_ I was right. They’re evil, they’re using us, they’re using the patients as tests, she’s working for WCKD pharmaceuticals. She’s working with them, and she poisoned—”

   “Alright, slow down,” Vince says, cutting a very flustered Thomas off. “What’s going on?”

   His cheeks are flushed, and he’s rocking back and forth on his feet, not staying still. He takes a deep breath, presumably to start going off on another tangent, but I jump in.

   “While we were in there, Janson and Ava Paige walked in,” I say. Vince raises his eyebrows. “We hid, but we overheard their conversation. It was about WCKD.”

  
  
  


I’m shaken awake, and it’s honestly the last thing I could want ever. Well, that’s not true, but in my sleep deprived state, it’s how I feel. My body tries to resist, but I open my eyes anyway.

   It’s Chuck, and he’s got a grin plastered on his face.

   “Good morning,” Chuck says breathlessly, stepping back from me.

   I fight to not close my eyes again, sitting up a little. _I won’t yell at Chuck, I won’t yell at Chuck._ “Hey, mind telling me why you just shook me to death at six o’clock in the bloody morning?”

   In my defense, he wouldn’t believe the night I had. Just thinking about it makes my stomach turn. After we got back from Janson’s office, Thomas and I told Vince what we heard. He looked about as shocked as we felt, and said we’d discuss a plan soon—not in a janitor's closet at nearly three in the morning.

   I didn’t get to sleep until at least three thirty. Now, I’m cursing my past self for staying up so long.

   Chuck’s smile doesn’t waver, despite my bitterness. “Sorry, but I wanted to tell you something.”

   “What’s that?” I ask.

   I still can’t believe anything in here would be worthy of Chuck’s excitement until the words leave his mouth.

   “Thomas is coming back today.”


	41. forty one

I rush to get to breakfast, and since Chuck is so excited about seeing Thomas, he doesn’t question my eagerness. I’m ready quickly, and Chuck wheels me out, babbling on about what he wants to tell Thomas after not seeing him for so long.

   Chuck didn’t have any night terrors I was around for last night, but the thought of him having them alone breaks my heart. Since knowing the kid, I’ve begun to feel a sense of responsibility for him. He’s only got the Normals. I wonder how many of them feel like their only family is each other.

   Pondering this doesn’t last long, because as we enter the dining room, my thoughts are focused on only Thomas. Why would they let him out? I’m glad they are, obviously, but it doesn’t make any sense.

   Just last night, Ava Paige was asking what to do about Thomas. They clearly see him as a threat, so why take him out of solitary? Especially when he’ll be around Gally? And _me?_

   That’s another thing I have to worry about. Ava Paige doesn’t want me to leave TIMI because I know too much. If I don’t get sane soon, I don’t think I’ll ever get out of here.

   Chuck helps me sit at the table, and as I do my tens, I feel sick. The only good thing is that Thomas is getting out of solitary. Whatever the reason, I’ll have him back. _Chuck_ will have him back.

   I look down the table, past the Normals. It takes me a moment to realize, but Gally isn’t here today. Did he do something to lose his privileges again? _Or maybe something worse happened._ Now I feel even worse, shaking my leg in tens in an attempt to calm myself down.

   “Are you alright?” I look up to see Fry staring down at me, his head tilted. He sets down my plate, then puts a hand on my shoulder.

   “I’m fine,” I say, realizing how dumb that is as it’s coming out of my mouth. Frypan nods, and I can still sense the tension between us. I don’t want him to hate me. “Listen, Fry—”

   “Actually, I’ll be back in a minute. I still have things to do. Hold that thought,” Fry says. It stings, but he still manages to sound polite. He pats my shoulder, then heads back towards the kitchen. I don’t bother protesting. Maybe he _will_ be back like he said.

   For the next five minutes, I watch the door. There’s conversation going on around me, so I distract myself slightly by listening to it. I don’t join in until I see Frypan sit down at the table.

   He doesn’t look at me at first. I’m thinking he’ll just flat out ignore me until he turns to me. He’s sitting on the other side of the table, next to Zart and Jeff. So if I’m going to talk to him, it’ll have to be over a bunch of people.

   “What were you going to say?” Fry asks.

   “I just wanted you to know that when I left TIMI—” I cut myself off when two different conversations come to a screeching halt after I start. They’re all looking at me now. _Great._ “It wasn’t to cheat the program. I want to get better, and I’m working on it. Promise.”

   It takes him a moment to respond, but he nods. “Alright, man. I just know you can recover, and I don’t want you to throw it away.”

   This seems to satisfy the nosiness of everyone else at the table, so now it’s just Fry paying attention to me. I’m relieved; I didn’t want this hanging over me.

   “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m not going to throw it away,” I say.

   When I got here, I never would have said any of this. Not believing it, at least. The goal was to get better, but it never looked possible. Not until recently.

   I owe that to a few things—and the number one thing is walking through the door right now.

   Thomas looks just as confused as I am about being here. Irrationally, it makes me smile a bit. Seeing him back here, feeling the comfort his presence provides. Because we’re in this _together._ Whatever bad things are happening, I know he’s going through it with me, and that means a lot at the moment.

   He walks over, and everyone explodes into their chorus of welcoming him and questions. All except me, who just stares up at him wordlessly. He looks around the table, then his eyes land on me. It takes me a moment to realize why he looks surprised for a second, before softly smiling back at me. I guess I don’t smile often—and it’s definitely odd after last night.

   Chuck makes Thomas sit between him and me, which Thomas doesn’t seem to have a problem with. He’s still smiling, and he fluffs Chuck’s hair before hugging him, Chuck not having stopped talking for a moment.

   “How are you? I missed you. How are you feeling? You were in solitary, right? Newt didn’t tell us anything about what happened when you left. Can you tell me anything? Oh, also, I didn’t have a night terror last night! Yesterday I had my panic attack in class, and I wished you were there.” Thomas nods along to everything Chuck says, and it’s almost comical how used to it he looks. Chuck really is a brother to him.

   “Thomas, dude, what happened?” Minho asks like I’m not there.

   Thomas shrugs. “I’ll tell you later.”

   Minho furrows his eyebrows at Thomas, but lets it go quickly. “We missed your ugly face. I know you must have missed me in solitary.”

   “Oh yeah, I was lost without you,” Thomas says. He then turns to me. “Hi.”

   “Hi,” I say back, noticing but trying not to mind how close we are—knees and shoulders touching, squished against each other on the bench. The small smile I’m allowing myself doesn’t waver. Maybe I’m sleep deprived? “Not that I’m not glad, but how are you here?”

   “Trust me, I have no idea. I thought I was being pranked,” Thomas says. “I’m not sure what kind of game they’re playing, but I’ll take it for now. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

   “We do,” I say.

   “Let’s talk in your room after breakfast,” Thomas says lowly. “About last night.”

   There’s plenty to discuss. “That’d be good, yeah.”

   Thomas nods, then begins asking everyone in the Normals about what he missed in their lives. As I look around at this group of kind and misunderstood kids, I wish we were all anywhere else. I imagine us all in a high school, sitting together at lunch like I used to with my friends, discussing our days. They deserve that. We all do.

  
  
  


Today, Thomas wheels me back from breakfast. As I get into my chair, I see Thomas looking around the room.

   He bends down so his mouth is by my ear. “Why isn’t Gally here today?”

   I fight not to jump at the suddenness of his voice and face so close to me. “I’m not sure. I was asking myself the same thing.”

   Thomas stands up straight again, pushing me forward while I complete my tens. “You don’t think…”

   “I don’t know,” I say. I’m not sure _what_ to think at this point. There could be a million reasons he wouldn’t be here, but maybe a handful of those are good reasons.

   “Thomas!” I hear Chuck and quick footsteps coming our way.

   “Hey, bud, what’s up?” Thomas asks, using a voice that’s sweeter than normal but not so sweet that it sounds degrading to Chuck.

   “Where ya going?” Chuck asks.

   “I need to talk to Newt for a bit, but we’ll be together in class soon,” Thomas says.

   “Oh. Okay,” Chuck says. I can hear the frown in his voice.

   “Actually, Tommy,” I say, looking up at him, “if you wanted to hang out with Chuck, I could probably use a nap anyway. We can talk after lunch.”

   Thomas frowns. “Are you sure?”

   “Positive,” I say.

   “Alright, well, I’ll push you back,” Thomas says, before turning to Chuck. “Looks like we’re hanging out after all. You can continue catching me up.”

   Chuck’s face lights up. Just what I wanted to see. “Awesome,” he says, before running off.

   I’m not about to take Thomas away from Chuck. Not after they’ve been apart so long.

   Thomas brings me back to my room, and asks me one more time if I’m sure before he leaves me to my bed, agreeing that he’ll come wake me up at ten for medication time. What I said about needing a nap wasn’t a lie, and I close my eyes as soon as my head hits the pillow.

  
  
  


After an extremely uncomfortable group therapy and a painfully long lunch, Thomas and I are finally seated on my bed, facing each other with our legs criss-crossed.

   “So do you think Ava ever called Mrs. Flores?” I ask.

   “If I know her? Yes,” Thomas says. “I don’t know if Mrs. Flores would buy it, though. I’ve got no clue what’s going on from inside here.”

   “I know,” I say. It’s frustrating being trapped here, because you know you can’t do much to help and whatever you do will be discounted. We’re just the crazy kids in the mental institution to everyone else.

   “Speaking of which, let’s work on you. No matter what Ava Paige says, they can’t keep you here. I won’t let them,” Thomas says. I get that warm feeling from before back. “If you’re better by the time they have to examine you, they can’t do anything.”

   “What about the legal reasons?” I ask.

   “Don’t worry about that. Worry about yourself. Well, don’t _worry_ —you know what I mean,” Thomas says. “Have you given any thought to what I said?”

   I’ve been actively avoiding thinking about it, actually. But I know what he said was right. “Yeah, I have. It’s just hard to figure out where to start.”

   “Wherever you want,” Thomas says.

   “I thought you were supposed to be the guide here?” I ask, to keep stalling. Thomas merely shrugs, leaving me to think. I know a place where we can start that _he_ can probably help best with. The place he suggested last night. “Okay, but I’ve got some questions first.”

   “Shoot,” Thomas says.

   Part of me feels like asking these things is unnecessary. Like it has absolutely nothing to do with me. But at the same time, my curiosity always gets the best of me. “What happened when you told your family about Dmitri?”

   Thomas’ face falls the same way it did last time this came up.

   “You don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry, I just—”

   “No, no, it’s alright,” Thomas says, looking down. “My mom made Brenda leave the room. I told them at dinner, and I didn’t really think it would be a big deal. After all we went through with my father, what’s my mom gonna do? Be angry her son is bi?”

   “She was angry?” I ask.

   Thomas suddenly looks up from his hands. His eyes meet mine for a second, then he shuts his, taking a shaky breath. “She said it was because of what I’d gone through. That I wasn’t _actually_ bi. It didn’t help that I was seeing things, so she just chalked it all up to me being crazy.”

   “Tommy…” I trail off. What do you say to that? “I’m so sorry.”

   “She also said she didn’t blame me. So she wasn’t angry at me, no. She was angry at my father for making me insane,” Thomas says, opening his eyes back up. “I never talked about Dmitri to her again, and she didn’t ask.”

   I reach out and put my hand on Thomas’ arm. He looks down at it, but I don’t think he minds. “Nobody _made_ you that way. You were born bi.”

   Thomas gives me a small lopsided smile. “I know. I can’t control it.”

   “You can’t.” I agree with him quickly, then pause. My heart starts skipping beats and making up it’s own patterns in my chest as I take my hand away. “Oh.”

   “Should I try to control it? Choose to be straight and only straight?” Thomas says.

   I barely hear him, but at the same time, his words echo through my head. Maybe I wasn’t ready for this after all. “You?”

   “Yes. Me,” Thomas says.

   “No, you shouldn’t,” I say finally.

   “I can’t change or fix who I am, Newt. Even if my mother thinks I’m crazy, sending me here isn’t going to make me like guys any less. I never let myself believe it,” Thomas says.

   “So what broke you and Dmitri up?” I ask. Anything to take the focus off of me.

   “I started shutting myself down to everyone,” Thomas says. “Dmitri didn’t understand my symptoms. I was showing up to school less than half the time, usually in pajamas and not having showered for days. It wasn’t pretty. He got scared, and I couldn’t do that to him. So one night, I called him and broke it off.”

   I’ve heard a few breakup stories from my old friends, but I think the tragicness of that one tops any of theirs. They didn’t break up over some argument, they didn’t drift apart. It was over something Thomas didn’t even understand himself. Something he couldn’t help.

   Unfortunately, my usual response to my friends of “That sucks” won’t work here.

   “I’m sorry you had to do that,” I say.

   “It’s okay. I wasn’t in love with him. Of course I liked him, but like I said, not a lot of options at the time. I just wasn’t worth the trouble,” Thomas says.

   His last words feel like a punch in the gut. “That’s not true. Don’t say that.”

   “This isn’t about me, Newt. We’re supposed to be focusing on you. Were those all your questions?” Thomas asks me quickly.

   I feel guilty for making him answer me, and I wish I could take the questions back now. “Yeah, I’m just sorr—”

   “Don’t be sorry. I’m glad you asked,” Thomas says. “So you asked me about how they reacted. Are you afraid of that?”

   Is there a point in dodging his obvious question? “I am.”

   “Then you have to make sure you’re confident in yourself before you even have to deal with reactions. That’s what I did,” Thomas says.

   “I’ve already been a big enough problem for my parents. How do I add something else to that? They have enough reason to hate me without potentially giving them another,” I say. It all spills out in one breath. I’ve thought it before, but I don’t know why it’s all coming out now.

   “If part of the reason your OCD is so bad is not accepting yourself, not doing that will only make it worse. You’re pushing it away right now. Trying to find reasons to ignore it,” Thomas says. “We’re gonna break that habit, okay?”

   Apparently we’re going to try to break a _lot_ of my habits. “Why do you make sense? It’s annoying.”

   He laughs. I was only half-joking. “I told you I’m smart. Another thing—your relationship with your dad.”

   “Here we go,” I say under my breath. I fight not to roll my eyes.

   “Hear me out. If you have this out in the open, maybe you guys can repair your relationship a bit. I think you may have drifted because subconsciously both of you knew there was something being held back,” Thomas says.

   I consider this. It’s not impossible. “What if it just made him more uncomfortable with me?”

   Thomas goes silent for a moment. I know why. There isn’t an answer to my question.

   “Have either of your parents mentioned… this kind of thing?” Thomas asks.

   “It’s never come up much,” I say. “My dad is kind of old fashioned. He hasn’t said anything _bad,_ necessarily. I don’t know. I don’t know.” I’m starting to feel overwhelmed again, but I push it down.

   “You know that anyone that isn’t accepting is a jerk for it, right? Even people we love. Sometimes they just need time. I can tell your parents love you. Both of them; even if they’re a bit rough around the edges. If they aren’t perfect right away, I know they’ll come around,” Thomas says, putting a hand on my shoulder. I almost jump to shrug it off, but I’m trying to force myself through the situation.

   “So I’m supposed to accept myself now?” I ask. There’s still the nagging feeling that there’s nothing to accept. I can’t even bring myself to think the words. “If I’m accepting of others, why would it be so hard if it was _me_?”

   “It’s just something internalized. It happens to a lot of people—it happened to Dmitri. But you have to just try to ignore it. It’s the part of you that you think you control, but you don’t. It’s controlling _you._ Take it back, remember?” Thomas says.

   “I’m trying,” I say. I’m trying as hard as I can, but trying to quiet the voice that tells me this is wrong is like trying to block a tsunami with a piece of paper.

   It’s a scary thought. That the thoughts I’m trying to control are controlling me instead. Am I really in charge of myself when my OCD is my whole life? When it’s pushing away friends and family and ruining any normalcy I’ve ever had?

   “It’s not something that happens overnight, but you’ll get there,” Thomas says, his hand sliding down my arm and landing on top of my hand. He holds it. I don’t meet his eyes—I just watch how his bigger hand can cover mine, and how I wrap my fingers around his thumb on my palm. “It’s scary, I know. But being who you are isn’t wrong. It never is. Have you felt wrong any time you didn’t run from yourself?”

   Just like that, I’m compelled to believe him again. About everything. “No. I haven’t.”

   “What’s that telling you?” Thomas asks. Now I want to see his face. I look up at him and he’s looking back at me with wide eyes.

   Looking at Thomas—or me, or anyone else in here for that matter—is always interesting. None of us are the picture of beauty or health. Mental illnesses aren’t pretty. Nothing about them is.

   But when you get to know someone like I’ve grown to know Thomas, your eyes see past that. I see his personality. His heart. It breaks mine when I think about what he’s been through, and it _sucks._ He didn’t want to have whatever he has, and he doesn’t deserve it.

   Just like I don’t deserve to be plagued with OCD.

   So I look at the boy in front of me, and I see _him._ The boy that loves TV and movies. The boy who’s favorite season is summer and color is red. The boy who’s showing me how to be my own cure.

   “I’m ready,” I say. “For real this time. I’m ready.”

   Thomas smiles.

  
  
  


“I changed my mind, I’m not ready for any of this.”

   “You can do it! Just try once. Do it once, and we’ll stop for today. Pick a recent one.”

   I rack my brain. “The nodding one started the day they decided to send me here.”

   “Alright, let’s start with that then. Maybe just try to nod once? You used to do it all of the time, right? Think about it, after you started that, something bad happened. How does that make sense?” Thomas says.

   “I get you’re trying to help, but thinking about breaking one of my compulsions is too scary to be comforted about,” I say. “Could you restrain me or something? Keep me from nodding again?”

   “I’m not supposed to. This is about you feeling the exposure and preventing your response to it,” Thomas says.

   “You sound like a textbook. Or a therapist,” I say.

   Thomas rolls his eyes. “I sound like someone that knows who they’re talking about.”

   It’s seven now. After our serious talk before, Thomas said he didn’t want to overwhelm me too much at once, so he suggested we just talk normally for a while. That ended up lasting until four, when Thomas had to leave for another class. It’s good to talk to him about nothing. He makes it easy.

   But now it’s after dinner, and Thomas asked if I wanted to try ERP. In a moment of bravery, I said yes. I’m regretting that now.

   “So I just nod my head and then try not to do it again?” I ask.

   “That’s the idea. Let it be totally out of your control. Don’t come up with a way to make it fit your guidelines in your head, just do it, okay?” Thomas says.

   I don’t want to answer, and I also don’t want a countdown to make this more daunting. So instead of replying, I do the most natural thing a person could do.

   I nod.

   Instantly, it feels like everyone in the world somehow has eyes on me. If the universe had eyes, they’d be boring into me right now. Maybe the universe _does_ have eyes?

   Thomas says something, but I’m just hearing the number _one._ Over and over again. All throughout my body, it feels like the number is being shoved at me by the very atmosphere. Are my eyes tearing up?

   This isn’t me having control. Now I know that. My OCD has an almost supernatural control over _me._ This isn’t right. Is the feeling like doom is consuming your body supposed to pass?

   My eyes are squeezed shut. I’m just noticing that. I reach out for something— _anything_ —to ground me, and I feel Thomas grab my hand and hold it in his. If I wasn’t so mortified, I’d be embarrassed about crying.

   Are my parents okay? Is this going to punish them again? _One._ At this point, my anxiety has gotten as bad as it can get while I’m on medication for it, and I feel like I’m about to start shivering. It’s paralyzing, so even if I wanted to move my head, it feels like I can’t.

    _One. I want to get better. One. I want to get better. One. I want to get better. One. I need to get better._

   How long has it been? I try to move my lips to ask Thomas, but I choke on my own words. My eyes open, and it’s almost jarring when I comprehend how concerned Thomas looks.

   I think he’s asking me if I need something. What could I possibly need right now that isn’t completing my ten? Now I think he’s asking me to breathe. I try to focus on breathing deeply, but all I want to do is count my breaths. Why can’t you breathe in tens?

   Thomas rubs his thumb over my hand—that feels like pins and needles at the moment—and I try to center my attention on the feeling. The weight on my chest has me shaking all over now.

   I didn’t have this compulsion until a month ago. Before that, I’d just nod and shake my head once or twice. Why did my brain decide to loop it in?

   Putting myself back in the moment, I think about the circumstances. I was in the school hallway, my nerves were on edge as usual. A school administrator nodded at me, and I tried to nod back. The new round of tens was born.

   But why? Why couldn’t I just nod once? Nothing told me I couldn’t. I just did it.

   I feel like I’m going to pass out.

   “Do you want water?” Thomas asks. He sounds like he’s not in the room. Or _I’m_ not in the room.

   I don’t see how water could help me through an anxiety attack. What _would_ help is the one thing I can’t do right now.

   Then, a thought strikes me. I did it. The small rational part of me is telling me that the world didn’t implode. I just need to call my mother. See if she’s okay. Does that go against ERP?

   I can’t let this rule my life anymore.

   “Am I doing it?” I ask shakily, surprised my voice even comes out.

   “You are,” Thomas says. I hate how much I must be scaring him.

   “I’m okay,” I lie.

   “You’re not supposed to be okay, Newt,” Thomas says.

   “Okay. I’m not okay,” I say.

   “But everything else is,” Thomas says.

   “You don’t know that,” I say.

   “Nobody ever does. You shouldn’t. But I know you don’t have power over that, and nothing that may go wrong will ever be caused by how you number your actions,” Thomas says.

   When he puts it like that, I sound ridiculous.

   “I need to just let this—I need this to pass,” I say.

   “I’m here,” Thomas says.

   “Thank you,” I say. Talking is helping. Talking is all I think about.

   “You’ve got this,” Thomas says. It’s appreciated, but it still feel like _this_ has got _me._

   One breath at a time, not counting them. Small exchanges with Thomas. Fighting off the yelling in my head. Trying to stop my shaking.

   Slowly, I start to calm down. My breathing begins to even out. My thoughts are constantly being replaced as I ask Thomas to tell me random things. My body stops vibrating a mile per minute. My hand grips Thomas’ for dear life.

   I’m not sure how long it takes at first. It feels like hours. But eventually, I can say I’m somewhat back to a state where I don’t feel like I’m on the verge of actual death. I can breathe, and even though my mind is a mess, everything else seems to be okay. When I check the clock, it’s a quarter to eight.

   I’m exhausted.

   “It’s almost eight already,” I say. I meant it as a question, but that’s not how it comes out.

   “I guess it is,” Thomas says, glancing at it too.

   “I’m—”

   The door opens, revealing Chuck. He looks at us for a moment, opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Then, he decides to speak. “Newt, there’s a call for you.”

   I look at Thomas, and he gets up, grabbing my wheelchair and getting it in front of me.

   “Do I… count still?” I ask.

   “You’re supposed to do it one step at a time, I think. So unless you’re feeling adventurous, yes,” Thomas says.

   I get up, counting my steps, and sit down in the chair. Chuck asks me why I look so shaken up, and Thomas tells him I’ll be okay while I complete my tens.

   He wheels me to the phone room, then a nurse makes Thomas surrender the chair to him. I want to complain, but Thomas seems to know better, so I follow his lead. He tells me he’ll be where he was, then walks off. That means my room, right? I hope it does.

   I’m taken up to the phone, and I pick it up, weakly telling the nurse on the other line who I am. I’m connected, and as soon as I hear her voice, I’m fighting off tears again.

   “Newt, it’s Mom,” she says.

   “Are you okay? Is everything alright?” I ask quickly.

   “I’m okay, and your father is okay. The only thing that’s not okay is that we’re missing you,” Mom says.

   I bite back an audible sob as the tears instantly roll down my cheeks.

   “I miss you guys,” I choke out after a moment of trying to breathe.

   “I know, sweetie. Listen, we called a bunch of people today, and we were told that involuntary—”

   “You can take your time for a little while,” I find myself saying. The line goes silent for a moment. “There’s a hearing involved, right? I need to be ready for it. I’m trying to do that now. I’m trying to get better.”

   “Honey, are you sure? Is it actually helping you?” she asks.

    _TIMI? No._ “I’m finding a way.” For now, Thomas is the only one that’s been able to help me progress. If the hearing was tomorrow, I’d be sunk.

   “The hearing can happen up to ninety six hours after the petition is filled out,” Mom says.

   “Okay, so I’ll tell you how I’m doing. That should give you enough time to get everything in order, right?” I ask. I know nothing about any of this, but I’m trusting she does.

   “You’re positive?” she asks.

   I can’t help how my voice wavers. “Yeah.” If I survived a month in here, I can do a few more days.

   “I love you so much,” Mom says. “We both do.”

  
  
  


When I’m wheeled back to the room by the nurse that took me from him, Thomas is sitting on my bed, Chuck sitting across from him on his own.

   “What’re you in here for?” I hear the nurse address Thomas from behind me.

   Thomas narrows his eyes at him. “Did you guys make having friends against the rules while I was gone?”

   “Just be in bed by ten.” The nurse doesn’t sound phased by Thomas’ attitude.

   “I will,” Thomas says. He may be confrontational at times, but he’s not stupid.

   The nurse leaves the room, and Thomas looks at me.

   “It was my mom,” I say.

   “And she was alright?” Thomas asks.

   “She was fine,” I say. “Actually, she said they’re trying to get me out. The hearing takes up to ninety six hours to happen after they start the process.”

   I can’t read Thomas’ expression.

   “Wait, you’re _leaving_?” Chuck asks.

   “I told her to hold off,” I say.

   “What?” Thomas asks incredulously.

   “I need to actually get better before I can leave,” I say. “You’re helping me do that.”

   In the back of my mind, I know it’s more than that. As much as I want to get out of TIMI, leaving behind the only friends I’ve had in a long time is going to be difficult. If I need to be here for now—despite everything else going on in this undeniably crooked establishment—I’ll have them.

   Thomas gives me one of his real smiles. The one that reaches his eyes and softens his features. “You’re sure?”

   The answer comes simply this time as I look up at my two best friends. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

   Operation recovery is a go.


	42. forty two

Sometimes, there’ll be moments in life where it feels like all the air is sucked out of the room. It may even take a second to comprehend _why_ it feels like that, but the tension is so heavy it’s impossible not to notice.

   That’s how it feels when Gally and Thomas lock eyes as we come out of my room.

   I haven’t seen Gally in nearly a week now. We’ve obviously been concerned, but now that he’s _here,_ I’m horrified to see how he handles Thomas. Who knows where he’s been? How he’s feeling?

   I’m looking between the two of them. Thomas is pushing me, but he’s stopped in his tracks and so has Gally. He doesn’t look well—even worse than the last time I saw him. But even from far away, I can tell that the old rage isn’t there.

   Maybe Thomas can tell too, because when I put my hand on top of his on the handle, he doesn’t look at me, but he nods. “Yeah, okay,” he says quietly.

   Gally’s got nurses around him, and I wonder what he’s out here for. Is he allowed to be with us again? Why the sudden taking him away?

   Thomas moves forward towards him and I try to look as normal as I can. I’m not afraid of _Gally._ I’m afraid of how Gally and Thomas will react to each other.

   When we get to where he’s standing, Gally is still looking at us.

   “Hey, Gally,” I speak up first.

   I don’t need to tell Thomas to join. “Hi,” he says from behind me.

   Gally blinks a few times. “Hi,” he says back to us. If he’s surprised we said anything, I wouldn’t blame him. Especially coming from Thomas, since their last encounter included Gally pushing him in the road.

   Their past is a messy one. If Gally can’t forgive Thomas, I’d understand that. But right now, the two of them are important pieces of the puzzle that is TIMI.

   This got awkward quickly. Thomas doesn’t say anything else, and I can’t think of anything. There’s no good question to ask.

   “Where are you headed?” I ask, inwardly cringing at myself.

   “Lunch,” Gally says, followed by a cough. Has he been sick?

   “Us too,” Thomas says.

   “Let’s go,” one of Gally’s nurses interjects. I can’t help but be thankful for it. Gally’s eyes linger on us a moment longer, then he lets himself be escorted down the hall.

   “That was…” I start.

   “Weird,” Thomas finishes the thought for me once it seems like Gally is out of earshot.

   “Yeah. Weird,” I say. “What do you think the WCKD pill is doing to him? He didn’t just rip your head off, but could that be unrelated?”

   “I have no idea,” Thomas says. “There must be something in common with everyone they’re giving it to. Like you and I—we have totally different symptoms. So what is it?”

   “I know,” I say, as Thomas starts pushing me again. “We need to figure out what that stuff does. Apparently Ava Paige likes what it’s doing to Gally, but why the disappearance?”

   “We’ll figure it out,” Thomas says.

   The last few days have somewhat flown by. It’s the tenth now, which means I’ve got Janson today, and so does Thomas. We’ve strategized what I should talk about in therapy, and while I’m nervous, I agreed to do it because the only way out of here is getting better.

   Thomas and I have spent nearly all of our time together. We’re with Chuck for a lot of it, so that always makes him happy. I’ve refrained from retreating and being on my own while they’re not in a class, and while they are, I write in my journal to give myself something to do. I write about my progress, and I write about the Normals.

   But on the off-chance Janson or Ava read the journal, I don’t write about TIMI or WCKD. Nothing that could get me in deeper trouble.

   I’ve successfully completed two more ERP exercises too, and I can’t say it’s getting easy, but it’s not getting more difficult. It helps to have Thomas by my side.

   The worst thing is that I’ve grown to not know what my life would look like without Thomas in it. Every time I think of leaving here, my mind goes to him immediately. It’s made even more awful by the fact that being here isn’t even _helping_ him. They aren’t treating him, and that’s not fair. It’s just not fair.

   When we get to the dining room, we get into our new usual spots—me, Thomas, then Chuck—and semi-obviously steal glances at Gally. His head is down, and he coughs yet again.

   “Hey, Newt,” Thomas says, turning to me after a minute. “You should try shaking your leg without counting them out.”

   “Hey, Thomas, no,” I say, making Thomas chuckle.

   “No, really,” Thomas says.

   “But it calms me down.”

   “Do you need to be calmed right now?” Thomas asks, turning to face me more.

   I stop shaking my leg when I hit ten, not having even noticed starting. It’s second nature. “I don’t know,” I say.

   “There’s other ways to calm yourself down that don’t involve counting, you know,” Thomas says.

   “I’d love to hear them, then,” I say.

   “Well—”

   “Thomas,” Minho cuts him off. Thomas and I both turn to face him. “I almost forgot—I overheard something in Rat Man’s office before. It’s about Winston.”

   Minho’s got everyone’s attention now. When I look down the table, I see he’s got Gally’s too.

   “What about Winston?” Thomas asks quietly, leaning forward.

   “It was Dr. Paige talking to him, and I think she said she finally got Winston’s mom on the phone,” Minho says, before he lowers his voice. “But I _know_ I heard her say ‘Mrs. Flores may no longer be a threat to us.’ ”

   That’s not good. That is not good at _all._ I look at Thomas, and he looks at me. If I could read his mind, I’m sure it’d be filled with the same panic as mine right now.

   “Did you hear anything else?” I ask, turning back to Minho.

   “Not much. Maybe something about stalling,” Minho says, looking between the two of us. “What does all that mean? Do you guys know something we don’t?”

   Thomas looks down at the table. I’m just hoping he speaks up, because I’m definitely not.  

   “We think they’re trying to—um.” Thomas doesn’t make it through more than a few words before he pauses, staring off at the wall. I’m mostly used to this by now, but it’s still concerning. The only way I can help is by trying to ground him, which I do now, touching his arm. He looks down again. “We think they’re trying to make Mrs. Flores drop the lawsuit.”

   “Are you kidding me?” Minho asks angrily, causing the other Normals to jump in.

   Thomas’ legs are shaking really fast, and it’s impossible to count them which annoys me since they’re causing my leg to shake. His eyes are closed as the Normals go through their freak out, and while I’m looking around them, my eyes land on Gally again.

   He’s watching us, and he looks at me now, his face mostly emotionless. But there’s something in his eyes that I can’t place. What does he know?

  
  
  


Thomas passes me on his way out as I’m wheeled into Janson’s office. He looks angry—and I’m sure he is. His mood has been off since lunch. I just hope he’s stuck to what we wanted to say in therapy today. If we say anything about the lawsuit, he’ll know we heard things we shouldn’t have.

   The nurse leaves me in my chair, so I’m sitting next to the regular chair you’re supposed to be in. It makes me uncomfortable being slightly off center, but I can’t focus too hard on that now. I have to keep my eye on the prize. Just like Thomas and I talked about.

   “How are you today, Newton?” Janson asks.

    _Afraid to talk to you._ “My ankle is starting to feel better.”

   “That’s good. Anything else on your mind?”

   My opinions on Janson are very mixed. He doesn’t approve of Ava’s plans—but he didn’t stop her, either. Thomas says he doesn’t do his job well enough, but he _also_ said I should try to get as much help from him as I can. So I’ll listen. He needs to see me getting better.

   “I’ve been trying these, uh, ERP exercises,” I say.

   Janson’s eyebrows raise. “Have you? How have they been going?”

   “They’re hard. I have anxiety attacks every time. It feels like I’m going to die; or someone else is. Or everything is going to just implode,” I say honestly.

   “But none of that has happened, right?” Janson asks.

   “No. I just feel really uncomfortable all of the time now,” I say.

   “That’s only normal. We can start doing those in here,” Janson says. “Would you like to start today?”

   My eyes widen. I don’t want to do it without Thomas—especially not when it’s with Janson. Not yet. I’m not ready. I need him here with me.

   How can I say no without sounding like I was lying about doing them? I can’t say yes, so I need a distraction. The other thing Thomas asked me to talk about. Anything to avoid doing this with Janson.

   “I also think I know where my control issues come from,” I say, unwillingly wincing at the end of my sentence.

   “Where is that?” Janson asks.

  _“How are you feeling now?” Thomas asked, his gaze reaching that depth only he could possibly manage._

_I felt a lot better than an hour earlier when we finished my second round of ERP. “Kinda okay, I guess. A little like my skin is too tight.”_

_“I get that,” Thomas said. “It’ll only get easier. I’m really proud of you.”_

_That made me smile. “Thank you.”_

_Thomas is a touchy person. Usually that would bother me. Well, “usually” meaning if it was someone that isn’t Thomas. He’s got a way of making things alright. So when he put his hand on my knee, I didn’t move._

_“Of course,” Thomas said sleepily, before yawning._

_I hate how the sight made my smile soften. It was a moment of calmness, followed by a pull at my chest. My old friend anxiety coming to tell me to shut down my thoughts._ Fight it.

    _No shying away from his touch anymore. It doesn’t mean anything to be close to him, right? I could just be close—whatever that means. Nothing bad about that. Friends are like that all of the time. No reason to freak out._

_Unless that’s Thomas’ whole point. Rationalizing all of this in my head. Isn’t that just another way of running?_

“A few things,” I say. “For one, my parents’ situation.”

   “What else?” Janson asks.

    _I was hoping you wouldn’t ask that._ I gulp, looking down at my knees. My whole face gets pink, and I’m wishing now that I hadn’t listened to Thomas.

   Thomas’ voice is in my head from after breakfast this morning. _“Tell him just like that. It’ll be scary, but it’ll go fine. I promise.”_

   If he breaks this promise, I’ll be seriously angry with him. But like I said; I’m ready.

   “Remember the friends from school I told you about?” I asks, playing with my hands in my lap. “There was this one… his name was Alby.”

  
  
  


I’m not sure how it wound up happening, but Thomas and I are laying side by side on my bed, staring up at the ceiling.

   Chuck is playing some game with Aris, so I know he’s accounted for. Not that I have to really worry about anything happening to him, but I know he’s not lonely. He looked happy at dinner. He’s been enjoying having Thomas back a lot, and he’s claimed it’s helping him. I understand, especially when it comes to him.

   My hands are on my stomach, but my arm is pressed against Thomas. It’s not weird, really. Thomas’ legs have a hard time staying still, so once again, they’re hitting into me quite a lot. Other than that, I’m alright.

   “So Janson agreed you need closure, right?” Thomas asks, turning his face to me.

   “Right,” I say, turning too.

   “That’s a good thing. You’re paving a way to recovery. That must be so exciting—it’s exciting to me,” Thomas says.

   His words are sweet, but also severely upsetting. I shift myself down a little, then put my head on his shoulder. Still not weird.

   “You’re going to get out of here. I’m going to make sure of it,” I say.

   I feel Thomas laugh a little. “That’s sweet, Newt, but I don’t think they’ll let me. My mom certainly won’t fight for me, either.”

   My eyes squeeze shut. “Don’t say that. They can’t keep you here. You’ll be eighteen soon, too,” I say.

   “I’d love to leave. They’re not doing anything for me here. But where would I go? Another place just like this?” Thomas asks. “This is going to be my life. I want TIMI to be brought to justice, but I don’t have any hope for myself anymore.”

   I remember one of my first conversations with Thomas being about this. He said he was a lost cause. It breaks my heart. This can’t be his life.

   “We’re going to figure it out. We’re going to expose Ava Paige, then we’re going to get you out for good, okay?” I say, feeling tears well up in my eyes. I must sound upset, because Thomas puts his arm around me.

   “Okay, Newt,” he says after a moment.

   It’s just for my benefit. I know it is; but I’m going to hold him to it.

   We stay like that for a minute, then I get closer to him. “Janson wasn’t as judgmental as I thought he would be,” I say, followed by a sniffle.

   “Did you beat around the bush a lot?” Thomas asks.

   “No,” I say automatically. Thomas doesn’t respond. “Fine, a little. But I told him that you said I felt… strongly about Alby.”

   “So you didn’t actually use any real terms,” Thomas says.

   “I don’t even use real terms in my _head._ But he got what I meant. I switched the subject to my parents after that,” I say.

   We spent the majority on my parents, actually. Apparently I hated the way they’d fight and I felt helpless, despite how much I helped. That it “can take a big toll on a kid.”

   “You’ll try again next time. But you can talk about it with me until then, if you want,” Thomas says.

   “I’ve felt sick since I left his office so I’ll hold off tonight, but thank you,” I say.

   “Suit yourself,” Thomas slurs. His drowsiness on the antipsychotics makes him almost impossible to understand sometimes at night.

   “I’m glad you talked this time,” I say. Thomas agreed to answer a few questions Janson has been asking him since he got here about his past. It was the only way he could get me to agree to talking about myself.

   “So was Janson. I got annoyed with him quickly, though,” Thomas says. “I snapped on him the second he started putting words in my mouth. But I did try.”

   “I guess we’re both new to opening up,” I say.

   “I guess we are,” Thomas says.

   It’s a bit on an understatement. The only person I’m comfortable opening up to is Thomas. He doesn’t make me feel so exposed, because he _gets_ it.

   “I’m afraid to see my parents,” I say after a minute. “There’s so much…” I trail off. There’s no way to even _list_ the unresolved issues and things we need to talk about.

   “You’ll be fine. They love you, so they’ll be understanding about anything you feel,” Thomas says. “Besides, if you originally felt helpless when they fought, doesn’t it help to know they’re finally taking over and solving things for themselves so they can be happy?”

   In a twisted way, that helps. Only a small bit, of course, since the rest of me is telling me it’s my fault and that maybe they’d be okay if I was still able to help them. But thinking about them talking things out and the possibility of them being happy takes a little of the edge off of this whole thing.

   “I know I have to talk to them,” I say. The rest of that sentence was supposed to be “when I leave,” but I don’t feel like mentioning that now. Especially since it’s more of an _if._

“You’ll all be alright. No matter what,” Thomas says.

   I’m starting to feel exhausted. I haven’t been this comfortable in a while, and it’s having a tiring effect on me. Thomas is warm, and my bed is soft. My closed eyes aren’t helping.

   Thomas brings me closer to him, and I instinctually turn so my body is facing him, my head closer to his chest now.

   “Is that okay?” Thomas asks, his arm around me getting a little tighter.

   Half-asleep is my favorite state. It’s like the parts of my brain that keep me so on guard are quiet, and I can finally see what it’s like to not have my brain be a mess of fighting and doubt.

   Instead of saying yes, I nod once. Then, I let sleep take me.

  
  
  


“Just give me one more minute! Jesus, be quiet.”

   “You don’t _have_ a minute. It’s past ten, and you’re lucky Chuck noticed before someone else did.”

   “Oh yeah, I’m the most fortunate guy here. I’ll leave, can you just keep a lookout for a sec?”

   “Make it quick.”

   It registers that I’ve got my face buried in Thomas’ chest. Our legs are tangled up together, and his arm is still around me. I can’t believe I even fell asleep, let alone woke up like _this._

   Still half asleep. One half is telling me to jump off of Thomas. The other—the louder one—is telling me I’ve never been more comfortable and relaxed in my life and to not let Thomas go.

   Thomas untangles our legs a little, and I decide it’s time to open my eyes.

   “Newt,” Thomas says, seemingly surprised to see I’m not still sleeping. “Did I wake you? I’m so sorry.” His voice gives away that he was asleep too.

   “It’s okay,” I say, as we separate ourselves.

   “I have to get back to my room,” Thomas says. He looks disappointed. “Goodnight, Newt.”

   Vince pops his head in, giving Thomas a death glare that makes him jump up off the bed. “Let’s go.”

   Thomas walks towards the door, but before he goes to leave, he turns to me with an apologetic look.

   “G’night, Tommy,” I say. It’s cold in the bed now that he’s not here.

   I shouldn’t ignore that.

   He smiles at me before Vince drags him out.


	43. forty three

Frypan leaves today. He’s going after lunch, and all day yesterday the Normals were talking to him and crowding around him, not leaving his side for a moment. Leaving this place is no small feat, apparently.

   Recovery itself is a long, tiring, vigorous road. Sometimes it feels like all you do is turn onto dead ends or get stuck in roundabouts. But I’m inching my way there. Slowly but surely, I’m on my way—and Fry has already crossed the finish line.

   Thomas helps me out of my chair to sit down for breakfast, and Fry is already at the table. I guess they’re giving him the day off from helping in the kitchen.

   He’s grinning, talking to Minho as he eats his food. It’s amazing to think about where he started, and how far he’s come. This place may have more than its fair share of issues, but at least they helped him.

   Aris looks happy today. He’s starting to look a bit healthier than when I first met him—a bit pinker in the cheeks, fuller features. Maybe Fry has inspired him? He’s definitely been inspiring me.

   My progress, according to Thomas, has been impressive. My panic in response to the ERP hasn’t been lasting so long, for one thing. But the talking part of it is still difficult. When it’s about my parents, I can manage. Other than that… some things are harder for me to accept or even think about for too long without feeling my compulsions take over.

   Someone who’s progress I’m entirely unsure of is Gally’s. He isn’t here again today. Is it violence, or something worse?

   Fry raises his cup of milk up, snapping me out of my thoughts. “It’s hard to believe this is my last breakfast here with you shuckers,” Fry starts, making everyone—including me—laugh. “I just want to say thank you for making every day here easier, and for supporting me through recovery. So”—he raises his cup further—”here’s to you guys.”

   Zart raises his cup. “Here’s to _you,_ Fry.” I’m not the only one surprised by Zart’s contribution. Everyone looks at each other. “What?”

   Minho shrugs. “Nothing, man,” he says, before lifting his drink. “To Fry.”

   We all follow, clunking the plastic cups into each other’s. A nurse eyes us, but thankfully he doesn’t interrupt. I say that, because the last time we had pasta, Minho put some in his teeth and pretended to be a walrus, resulting in a nurse telling us that playing with food is “dangerous behavior” and bad for his recovery.

   Thomas looks at me with a smile. “This’ll be _you_ soon,” he says.

   “Yeah,” I say. The thought is frightening. “Maybe it will be.”

  
  


We were informed yesterday that today’s group therapy is a discussion on our goals, due to Fry leaving. Ava Paige starts the conversation, gazing proudly at Frypan as she clasps her hands in her lap.

   “Today is Sigmund’s last day here at Ted Immenty. The staff here are all very proud of him for his recovery, and wish him nothing but luck in the future. Do you have anything you’d like to share with the others today?” Ava asks. I’m glad she’s so happy to see Fry go. She must love the patients here that she doesn’t drug.

   “Yeah, actually. Thank you,” Fry says, nodding at Dr. Paige. “I want to say that being here and accepting help is scary. You all know that already. But when you start looking out for yourself, everything gets better. I’m really grateful to TIMI for helping me realize all of this.”

   It’s funny to look out at everyone’s faces after he speaks. Half of them look happy for him or motivated. The other half are almost annoyed. Like Thomas, they probably don’t believe they’re getting out of here anytime soon—if ever.

   As for me, I take his advice to heart.

   “Beautifully said, Sigmund. Let’s go around and talk about what you’re hoping to accomplish. Whether that be today, this week, or for the rest of your stay here.” She says “stay” like we’re at some resort. “Who would care to start?”

   Minho—who’s sitting beside Fry—starts by saying he wants to work through his head and get on the right medication. It goes counterclockwise from there. Aris says he wants to stop thinking about the weight he’s putting on so that when they finally tell him what the number is, he’ll be okay with it. Chuck says he wants to work harder in therapy to be out of here by his fifteenth birthday.

   Eventually, we get to Thomas, who’s sitting to my left. He’s fidgeting with his hands, and he keeps looking down at his feet. I want to help him somehow, but everyone is watching. Unfortunately, he’s on his own in here.

   “I want to know what’s wrong with me, for starters,” Thomas says. He leans forward, propping his elbows on his legs. “I’d also like to find out how to live with what I have. Try different things, see what works. Also, I want to not be on so much medication that I feel like someone shot me with a tranquilizer. That would be nice.”

   My eyes widen, and I look at Ava Paige. Her smile fades. “We’ll keep balancing out your medication, Thomas. If you work on it with us, we can find something that’s good for you.”

   Thomas gives her a stone cold glare. “Great,” he says flatly.

   “Newton?”

   Oh, wonderful. My turn. Everyone that cares puts their focus on me. I hate sharing, and I hate feeling exposed.

   “Um. I want to keep at ERP, and work on accepting things about my life.” It comes out as a question, my voice going up at the end of my sentence. I didn’t mean for that to happen. “Those are my goals,” I say more assuredly.

   Dr. Paige nods, then moves on. I sigh in relief as everyone shifts their attention to someone else; a ginger boy who says he wants to go a day without his withdrawal symptoms bothering him.

   As we near the end of the circle, a man walks in. I don’t recognize him. He’s wearing a brown sweater vest, so I don’t think he’s a regular nurse.

   “Dr. Paige, there’s an urgent matter that needs your attention,” he says. His voice wavers, like he’s trying and failing to sound more calm than he is.

   Ava looks at him, her face falling for just a split second before she regains her cool. She looks up at the nurse in the back of the room. “George, would you mind taking over for the end of group?” she asks. George nods, making his way to the front of the room. “I’m sorry to leave so suddenly. Keep sharing, please,” she says curtly, before walking towards the door at a brisk pace.

   Thomas and I look at each other, and I know what he’s thinking.

   We may be going on another adventure soon.

  
  


We’re all sitting in the rec room, huddled around Fry. He’s just gotten back from getting everything of his packed up, and he’s about ready to walk out the door since his parents are supposedly on their way. It’s a bittersweet thing to watch him go. We’ll all miss him, but he deserves to be free out there. He did it. He beat his illness.

   “I’m expecting you all to call me and text me when you get out,” Fry says. He gave us all his number and address before. “And I’ll be writing to you guys, too. This isn’t goodbye.”

   “We’re still going to miss you, though,” Aris says in a small voice.

   Fry looks teary eyed. “I’ll miss you guys too.”

   That’s what we do for a while—listen to Fry talk, and ask him questions. He makes jokes, as do the others. He’s like the beacon of hope to the group. I can tell that he’s been the one they turn to for a smile. The kid could be a motivational speaker at this point. So we enjoy him one last time until a nurse comes in, informing Frypan that his parents are here.

   He hugs all of us, despite that kinda being against the rules. I’m comfortable hugging him, because it’s nearly impossible to feel weird with someone so welcoming. Then, we follow him out the door of the room. He starts his individual goodbyes, and I listen to all of them, almost feeling like I’m on the verge of tears. Especially because Chuck and Aris actually _are_ in tears.

   Minho makes a joke about not missing Fry’s cooking, but as they hug, he squeezes his eyes shut. I can tell he’s moments from breaking too.

   When Fry turns to Thomas, Thomas smiles at him. “We’ll miss you a lot, Fry. I’m really proud of you.”

   “Thanks, Tom,” Fry says. “Don’t give up, alright?”

   Thomas nods, before giving him a polite “thank you.” I don’t think _anyone_ believes he’ll actually take that to heart.

   Fry looks at me, and he speaks first. “Newt? Remember everything I’ve said, okay man?”

   I give him a smile. “I will.”

   Frypan looks hesitant to take my word for it. I don’t blame him. “It’s been really nice getting to know you, and I hope I see you soon.”

   “You too, Fry. Congrats again, and I’ll miss you—and your food. Keep cooking,” I say sincerely.

   Fry laughs and thanks me, before continuing with his goodbyes. When he’s done, he gives us one last signature grin, then starts to walk away, leaving us all sniffling.

   Thomas leans down to me. “Your room?” We still haven’t gotten to talk about what happened at the end of group.

   “Sure,” I agree, my voice as shaky as his. One of the Normals leaving is a big deal to even me. I can hear Zart telling Jeff he doesn’t know how he can do this without Fry here, and I think he’s only half exaggerating.

   As he starts to wheel us towards the hallway, I hear a call.

   “Wait, Newt!” Fry jogs over to us. He looks up at Thomas. “Could I have a sec with him?”

   I hear Thomas step away, then it’s just us. My heart starts pounding. Out of everyone, I wouldn’t expect him to stop _me._ “Yeah, Fry?”

   He looks hesitant before he begins speaking. “You said you want to accept things, right?”

   “I did,” I say warily, my face heating up.

   “Well I just wanted to say that whatever it is that you’re afraid of, face it head on. It’s scary, I know, but it works. The only way out is through. Go to the places your head tells you not to, and think about _yourself_ for once,” Fry says. His words come out rushed, but something tells me he’s not coming up with this on the spot.

   I consider his words for a moment, and now my hands are shaky. “What if I regret it? Doing what scares me?”

   “Avoiding it isn’t working out for you, is it?” Fry asks. I’m silent. “Trust me. I want to hear from you soon, alright Newt?”

   “Alright,” I agree, my mind racing too fast to even focus on my words.

   Fry looks satisfied. “I’ll see you around. Good luck,” he says. With that, he’s off.

   As I watch him go, Thomas comes back up behind me and starts pushing me towards my room. Fry’s words run through my head while we move, and I resist the urge to shake my leg in tens. It causes a numb feeling to spread throughout me, and it’s like my body is being weighed down.

    _Avoiding it isn’t working out for you. Go to the places your head tells you not to. Face it head on. You’re pushing it away right now. What’s that telling you?_

Thomas pushes me into the room, stopping beside the bed. I’m only hardly registering where we are until Thomas walks around to the front of my chair to face me. Blood is rushing to my ears, and it feels like I might somehow collapse while sitting.

   “What’d he say? If you don’t mind me asking,” Thomas says. I look up at him, and he looks at me worriedly. “Are you okay?”

    _Take it back, remember?_

I stand up, and I’ve lost almost all feeling in my whole body. Thomas just eyes me, but doesn’t say anything. Everything in the world is quiet for a moment. It’s okay. _It’s okay._

   One step forward. But that’ll be okay, too.

   My hands aren’t shaky anymore—and if they are, I can’t tell. I know I won’t care in a moment anyway.

   Let it be quiet. Let the numbers and the voice telling me I’m wrong be quiet. Even if it’s just for a few seconds. This is me recovering. This is me taking Frypan’s advice. This is me taking my life back.

   I kiss Thomas before I get the chance to wonder if it was odd to take his face in my hands. After the agonizing split second it takes for him to respond, he’s kissing back. Just like the last two times, I feel above myself, like it’s an out-of-body experience.

   But it’s different this time. The first times, I didn’t want to admit that I want this. I wanted to write this off as something else in my head. I’m not doing that now. I won’t do that now.

   I like how he briefly smiles into it. I like how he wraps his arms around my waist to pull me closer. I like how he moves rhythmically in a way that makes me feel like I’m not messing up somehow. I like how warm his skin is under my fingers.

   Last time, I wondered if Thomas was the answer. Now I know that it’s not _him._ He isn’t going to “fix” me. Because _I_ am. I want to kiss Thomas, and that’s okay, because I can’t change that. Nobody should. So I’ll stop trying.

   I pull away first after who knows how long, and I look at him, catching my breath. “He told me to do what I was afraid of. And yes,” I say, my eyes scanning his face before landing back on his eyes, “I’m okay.”

   Tommy’s face softens, and he beams. “You _are_ okay. Everything is.”

   “I didn’t ask you first,” I say.

   “Do you really think you’d need to?” Thomas asks.

   “No,” I say, because it’s true. If there’s one thing this boy doesn’t do, it’s make me doubt myself around him. “I don’t.”

   “Good,” Thomas says. I can tell he’s trying to be careful about what he’s saying, like I’m a deer he’s trying not to scare off.

   “And Tommy?” I ask. He raises his eyebrows in questioning. His arms are still wrapped around me, and mine have fallen to a spot high on his chest. “You’re worth the trouble, because you’re _not_ trouble,” I say. I have to physically force the words out, but I mean them all. “Not to me.”

   Thomas’ breath hitches, and his expression morphs into something I can’t even describe. It’s a mix of shock and gratefulness, and his lips are slightly parted as he looks at me. I love it. “Newt, I…” he trails off. I’ve never seen so much emotion from someone’s eyes before. “You’re not trouble to me either. You’re the _opposite,_ actually.”

   “You are too,” I say, a smile involuntarily forming.

   “Being happy is a cute look on you,” Thomas says.

   My face is red, and we both know it. _Happy._ I’ve been running on adrenaline, but as much as Tommy makes me feel like I’m flying, there’s still some turbulence—or worse, a crash. The number one repeats in my head, and I can’t stop thinking that it’s not too late to complete the ten. The compulsion isn’t broken, it’s still very much there. “It’s so loud in my head, Tommy.”

   “Mine too, trust me. I know what it’s like to try to drown out voices,” Thomas says. _Duh._ I should have thought of that before I said anything. “But I know you can beat yours. _You_ can be louder.”

   I’m afraid to nod. “So what do I do now? Walk? Start the count over? Continue it?” I ask.

   “For now? I’d sit down,” Thomas says, removing his arms from around me. I try to hide my brief feeling of disappointment at the loss of contact, but I let myself feel it.

   I sit down on the bed, and Thomas sits next to me. _One._ I need to distract myself. Big time. “So, um,” I try to think. “What do you think was going on with Ava Paige?”

   “It could be a million different things. But I think we need to find out,” Thomas says. “Vince is working tonight, so we should take a look around.”

   “I was thinking the same thing,” I say.

   “That’s my boy,” Thomas says, with a wink.

   I’m blushing again. It’s such an odd feeling to have half of you saying how you’re feeling is wrong while the other half wants to feel it so bad. Well, it doesn’t _want_ to; it just does. It feels butterflies at Thomas’ words. It feels chills when Thomas puts his hand on my back. It feels relieved when I admit these things to myself.

   “So your theory is that I had… I felt something that wasn’t platonic for Alby, and when he reacted like that it made me repress it more?” I ask. I’m mad I couldn’t say the actual words, and also for getting back on the subject I just managed to change.

   “Actually,” Thomas says, almost looking smug, “I never said that. _You’re_ saying it. So odds are, it’s right.”

   “Oh,” I say. I feel nauseated, but I ignore it as best as I can. “Why is this still so hard to think about? Or say out loud?”

   “Don’t worry if it takes a while to be comfortable. But it helped me to talk about it and say the words ‘I’m bi’ to myself or other people,” Thomas says. “It’s a little freaky at first, but also liberating. They’re just words, but they’re important.”

   “Is saying it for real for the first time a big deal?” I ask.

   “If you want it to be,” Thomas says.

   It’s horrifying, but I think I know who I want to do this in front of. It might end awfully, but either way, if it has to happen, it should be the first time.

   “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say. “I still can’t believe you knew before me.”

   “I didn’t know before you, you just didn’t want to think about it,” Thomas says. “I’m still sorry for pushing you into talking about it before you were ready.”

   “No, it’s okay. _Someone_ had to. Plus, you were right. It’s important for recovery,” I say. As much as it threw me off guard, it’s not like I could have gone the rest of my life ignoring it—and something tells me I would have tried.

   “It does make a lot of things about your life make more sense, right?” Thomas asks.

   That couldn’t be more true. Things like not being interested in the girls at school like all my friends were, or how I felt so uncomfortable at the concept of being with Teresa once I realized my mom wanted us to date. Or how I felt worse than I ever had in my life when I found Alby and Teresa on my bed.

   “It does. It makes me feel like an idiot, but it does,” I say. “I’ll be disappointing my mother. She wanted me with Teresa.”

   “She won’t be thinking about that. You’re a lot more than a potential relationship with a girl,” Thomas says.

    _This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong._ I try to take a deep breath to block out the thought, and instead, I replace it with what I _meant_ to think. _I like boys. I like_ this _boy._

    _I might have to leave this boy soon._

   My chest hurts. “I hope so,” I say. If I don’t change the subject, I’m afraid I’ll start crying or something embarrassing like that. “So, tonight. Where are we going?”

   “I’ve got a few ideas I have to run by Vince, but I’ll figure it out. Trust me,” Thomas says.

   “I always do.”

  
  


I’m extremely new to the world of… affection. I don’t even like the word. But since I figure it’ll help, I’m making a conscious effort to push my comfort zone a bit with Thomas. Even if I’m slightly awkward.

   At dinner, I take Thomas’ hand in mine under the table. The odd thing is that it doesn’t feel wrong, but I have to force myself not to pull back. When he gives me an encouraging look, it makes it better. I like how our fingers automatically intertwine.

   The one thing I definitely cannot think about is what this is. I know I like him, and I know we’ve kissed three times—wow, that’s weird to think—but I don’t know what that means, or if it could mean anything at _all._ Because in here, with our situation, what chance would we ever have to even figure that out?

I grip Thomas’ hand tighter. He looks at me, and his eyes travel up and down my face. It gives me an odd feeling that I know well enough to recognize now. I’ve had it all long with him, even if I used to just think it was anxiety.

   “How are you feeling?” Thomas asks softly.

   “I’m okay. Well, not really. But I’m not as bad as I was expecting to be,” I say truthfully.

   “That’s good to hear,” he says with a nod.

   I need a new topic to occupy my brain with before I start spilling all of my thoughts right at the table. “Do you think Gally being gone has anything to do with him being sick the other day?”

   “It could be. He looked awful. I mean, I’m one to talk, but still,” Thomas says.

   “Who are we talking about?” Minho asks, leaning forward.

   I almost forgot there were other people here.

   “You. Take a shower,” Thomas says, facing him.

   Minho snorts. He takes care of his appearance better than any of us, actually. Apparently he asks to sign out his hair gel from the nurse’s station nearly every day. “Hilarious. Now tell me.”

   “Did you notice how sick Gally’s been looking?” Thomas says quietly, leaning closer to Minho. His hand is still under the table with mine, and I loosen my grip to let go so he doesn’t hurt his arm, but he takes it back. I smile to myself.

   “I guess. I don’t pay much attention to him, but I did notice him hacking up a lung while I was trying to eat,” Minho says. “Why do you guys care, though? I thought you hated him.”

   “It’s complicated,” I say.

   Minho looks between us a few times. It makes me wonder how much Thomas has told him. They’re roommates, so obviously they spend a lot of time talking. What does he say? Things about TIMI? _Anything about me?_

   “I saw Gally before, actually,” Minho says.

   I lean forward too, now. “Where?” Thomas and I ask at the same time.

   “I don’t know where he was coming from, but it looked like the solitary unit,” Minho says.

   “Thanks, dude,” Thomas says. That’s another thing I’ve noticed. Thomas doesn’t really call me ‘dude’ or anything like that. He usually just uses my name. I like it. “Anything else you can remember?”

   “What are you, a cop?” Minho asks, rolling his eyes. “He had a couple of nurses with him, I guess.”

   “Noted. You’re a wonderful and observant man,” Thomas says, returning to his original sitting position after I do.

   Minho seems amused. “You look weirdly happy today. Did they pump you with new drugs or something?”

   Poor choice of words. But does Thomas really look noticeably happy? I look at him and he’s got a small lopsided grin on his face. His thumb runs over my hand as he shrugs. “I’m in one of my rare good moods.”

   “So you’re _absolutely_ drugged up, then?” Minho asks.

   Thomas gives me a look that brightens up his whole face. It’s beautiful to see. “Sure,” he says, not breaking eye contact with me, “why not.”

  
  


Chuck is having a night terror.

   Thomas and I are beside him on his bed, and he’s screaming his brother’s name, along with gibberish, “no” and “stop” as he thrashes around.

   “You’re okay, buddy, you’re okay,” Thomas is saying.

   “Why isn’t he calming down?” I ask.

   “That has to happen on it’s own for the most part,” Thomas says. It feels wrong to just sit here and watch Chuck freak out. Apparently I can’t try to wake him up either.

   Vince is standing outside the door, keeping watch for us. We were about to leave the room, then Chuck started screaming and there’s no way we were about to leave him like that. So Vince got Thomas, now here we are.

   His brother’s name—Ben—echoes through my mind as his thrashing starts to subside. I feel helpless. We can’t bring Ben back. We can’t make his parents better people. We can’t even snap him out of a night terror.

   Thomas gets closer to Chuck and puts his hand on his back. “It’s Thomas. It’s alright,” he says. He repeats his name a few times, just like my first night here. I watch Chuck start to settle, and Thomas glances up at me quickly. “Thomas and Newt are here. Everything is okay, Chuck. You’re okay.”

   For a split second, it warms my heart to think that my being here would help calm down Chuck. Then, I start to feel horrible. If I get out of here, he won’t have me anymore. I can’t stand the thought of him alone in here again.

   Chuck’s pretty much completely asleep at this point, so Thomas backs away, and I get off of the bed. When I stand, I’m on five. I hate counting.

   “I think he’s alright,” Thomas whispers.

   “Good,” I say. Chuck’s face looks peaceful now. He looks even younger asleep.

   I make a vow to myself. I’m going to make sure Chuck winds up happy. That he gets better and gets the proper teenage experience. One far away from here.

   “We should probably get going,” Thomas says.

   I get in the chair, then tap my feet the remaining two times.

   Before I go to snap my fingers, I think about my tens. Both Thomas and Janson have made me notice things about them. Why do I care about some things, but others don’t matter? Why can I breathe and blink without numbers? Why do I have to snap my fingers only after walking but nothing else?

   I know it’s ridiculous. _I’m_ ridiculous. Whenever I don’t complete a ten, everything is alright after. But then the other part of me tells me not to believe that, and I’ll still be punished. Like I’m throwing off the balance of the universe.

   Breaking compulsions is _really_ hard.

   Thomas starts pushing me towards the door, and I still haven’t snapped my fingers. I have a minute, right? I’m just sitting down right now.

   “My first night here, I watched you help Chuck. I wondered how just a person’s name or presence could calm someone down so much,” I say quietly. Thomas stops, and looks down at me. I crane my head to look up at him. “I get it now.”

   Thomas smiles. He likes helping people. I can tell it’s become a huge part of him now, and despite what Ava Paige and Janson like to say, he’s only ever had good intentions. Every single one of us in here is treated like a criminal for things we can’t control. But we’re people. That’s all.

   Vince opens the door all the way for us, and then takes over pushing. Thomas can’t be caught pushing me through the halls. He’s going to wait behind for a minute, then Vince will get him.

   At least that’s the plan until I hear coughing from down the hall.

   I turn to look, and sure enough, Gally is walking between two nurses. He’s gotten so skinny that it’s scary to look at now, especially since he’s so tall. He shuffles forward, and I know that their destination is the bathroom.

   “Vince,” I say so lowly that I can barely hear myself. “We need to go wherever Gally came from.”

   “The solitary unit?” Vince says, matching my volume.

   I nod.

   On the way down to the hall, I start shaking. It’s too much. I did too much. I draw a sharp breath, then close my eyes for a moment. Two tens uncompleted. Then the one from before. I feel like I’ve got all of the missed numbers looming over my head.

   Vince makes the turn around the corner, and it makes me realize that I had no plan. This isn’t the time to have a breakdown about my tens. Unfortunately, anxiety can’t be scheduled.

   I notice an empty solitary room. Since it’s too quiet to speak, I merely point to it. Thankfully he doesn’t protest, taking me in without a word. It’s freezing in here. Either that, or it’s just me.

   “You okay, kid?” Vince asks.

   I guess it’s noticeable. “I’ll watch, just get Thomas.”

   He eyes me suspiciously, but agrees, leaving the room. He’s going to get Thomas. Thomas—who I can’t rely on anymore once I’m gone. I’ll be on my own. Alone with nobody to help me when it comes to things like this.

   My eyes are tearing up. Vince left the door open enough for me to look out, so I try to focus on watching, but my thoughts feel so loud that for a moment, I’m almost worried someone else will hear.

   Is this about control? Do I feel like I’m not in control right now? I took control today, isn’t that enough? I’m supposed to be getting better. I need to get better.

   There’s movement. I look up, and from down the hall, I see Gally. Then, I register something. _Was this the_ only _empty room?_

   My heart starts skipping beats, and I wheel myself over to the corner. I have no time to wonder how those tens would work. It’s pitch black in here, so I only have the hallway light to see with. If they come in here, I’m done.

   They stop at the door, and my stomach drops. Then, it opens, and Gally stumbles in. Only Gally. They close the door all the way, so now, it’s only us.

   And I’m trapped.

   I’m not even sure of what I should _do._ I can make out the silhouette of Gally sitting on his bed, and he sniffles a few times, then breathes audibly before coughing. He sounds as awful as he looks.

   I don’t want to scare him, but I definitely can’t just sit here for the rest of the night. I’d rather alert him of my presence than have my impending anxiety attack tell him. What is Vince going to do when he comes back with Thomas? What will the nurses outside say?

   All I can do from in here is try to talk to Gally. That’s my only option.

   These doors are heavy, and mostly soundproof I think. Why they closed it is beyond me, but it’s the only advantage I’ve got.

   “Gally?” I whisper. Gally moves suddenly, and I think I see his head looking around. He settles after a moment. At first I’m confused, but then something crosses my mind. Gally may not think my voice was real. “It’s Newt. I’m over here.”

   He doesn’t move for a moment, so I’m about to get up when he beats me to it.

   “Newt?” he whispers. I almost sigh in relief that he’s quiet.

   “In the corner,” I say. Gally finally spots me, and looks at the door before coming over. He stares at me for a moment.

   “What are you doing in here?” Gally asks, his voice hoarse and just as sluggish as last time. “ _How_ are you in here?”

   “It’s a long story. But I wanted to know how you are,” I say. It’s not a lie. “Why haven’t you been out with us?”

   Gally pauses, then sits down in front of me. It’s anything but graceful. He practically falls onto the ground, using wobbly arms to steady himself. Once he’s against the wall, he looks at me. “I’m…” he trails off, shaking his head. “I’m not doing well.”

   “What happened?” I ask.

   “I’m not delusional,” he says. “They take my blood. They attach things—things to my head. They-they tell me it’s good. I hate it. I’m sick, my brain is a mess. Today, I-I—” Gally cuts himself off from his rambling, coughing again.

   “Did they do something today?” I ask.

   “I tried to fight back. Not take the pills, not get poked with that needle again,” Gally says. “They knocked me out. I hit someone. They won’t _listen._ They never listen to me, she doesn’t listen, she doesn’t get it.”

   He’s whispering, but his voice is breaking and manic. “It’s the pill from WCKD?” I ask. I think about what he’s saying. “They do tests on you?”

   He nods. Then, he looks into my eyes. His are tearing up, and his lip trembles. He’s scared. As scared as he was when he saw Dr. Paige. He shakes as he speaks. “Stop them. Please,” Gally says. “ _Help me_.”

   I gape at him for a moment before I hear a voice outside. It’s muffled, so I don’t know who it is, but I pray it isn’t Ava or Janson. I use the opportunity to speak.

   “I will,” I say. Gally almost looks like he believes me. He’d have no other choice than to put a little faith in me. I’m the only hope he’s got. “Did they ever say what the pill does?”

   Gally shakes his head. “They only said it would help me.”

   There’s no more talking outside the door. Whoever it is must have gone away. “If you think of anything else that could help, let me know, alright?” I ask.

   Gally puts his head in his hands and coughs. “Okay,” he says.

   The door flies open, and my heart jumps into my throat. This is it for me. Who knows what kind of punishment I’ll get for sneaking into Gally’s room? Or how much trouble Vince will be in if they figure out that he was the one that took me?

   I’m coming up with terrible excuses to get Vince off the hook when the door closes behind whoever it is. After my eyes adjust and the light hits him, I don’t know if I’ve ever been so grateful to see someone.

   “Vince,” I say.

   He walks over to me and takes my wheelchair without a word. As he wheels me towards the door, I watch Gally looking at us. He’s still slumped against the wall, and I want to help him get back to his bed, but Vince is opening the door before I have the chance.

   When we get back to my room, Thomas hops up off of my bed.

   “What happened?” he asks.

   “I thought I took you back to your room,” Vince says sternly.

   “I thought I told you I wasn’t leaving,” Thomas shoots back before turning back to me.

   “I got stuck in Gally’s room. He told me—”

   “Listen boys,” Vince says, cutting me off. “I have to talk to you about something.”

   “What?” Thomas asks.

   Vince moves to stand between us, and he doesn’t meet our eyes as he speaks. “I can’t help you anymore.” Everyone is silent.

   “Why not?” Thomas asks sharply after a few moments.

   “I can’t afford to lose my job right now, Thomas. I’m barely making rent as it is, and my kid’s going to need money for school soon, I just—I can’t risk it. I’m sorry, but tonight cut it too close for the thousandth time,” Vince says.

   I’m not going to argue with him, but it looks like Thomas is. “TIMI is a bad place, Vince,” he says. “You could help us expose them.”

   Vince shakes his head. “I’m sorry, kid.”

   Thomas is angry, but I can tell a lot of that is pure hurt. I’m angry too, since he _knows_ what we overheard in Janson’s office. But it’s not my place to tell him to risk his job for us. Even if staying here is morally wrong.

   Vince goes to take Thomas’ arm. “I have to get to my post before they notice I’m gone. Let’s get you back to your room—”

   “I wouldn’t touch me if I were you,” Thomas says, stepping back and dodging his hand.

   Vince just sighs. “Fine. But we need to get you back.”

   Thomas gives Vince a dark look and keeps his eyes trained on him while he speaks. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Newt.”

   Vince let’s Thomas lead the way, and they leave, taking the tension with them. Without allowing myself to replay the last few minutes in my head, I stand up from my chair. Two steps out. Three steps to get onto my bed. I kick off my shoes, then lie down, still in my clothes from the day.

    _Five. Ten snaps. Five. Ten snaps._

   I’m their only hope.

    _Five. Ten snaps. Five. Ten snaps._

I squeeze my eyes shut. They need me. The only way out is through.

    _Five. Ten snaps. Five. Ten snaps._

I control my fate. And now, I control theirs too. Thomas. Chuck. Gally. Everyone. I’m taking it back. I combat the anxiety, numbers, and doubt in my head with one sentence.

    _I’m taking control._


	44. forty four

“So what have you been able to do without completing your tens?”

   “Nod, wash my hands, shake my legs,” I say. “Oh, and walk.”

   “Walk?” Janson asks. He looks impressed. 

   “Walk,” I confirm. 

   “That’s quite a big improvement, Newton. How have you felt?” Janson asks.

   “I’ve felt good,” I lie. “A lot less anxiety. I think it was just about... accepting everything I can’t control.”

   “Have you thought anymore about how moving here affected you? Or your parents’ unhealthy relationship, or how things ended with your best friend?” Janson asks.

_ Don’t cringe.  _ “I have. It’s been nice to admit things to myself,” I say, fighting back my urge to scoff at his words.

   “Mind demonstrating one of your ERP exercises for me?” Janson asks.

   I knew this would happen. Thomas prepared me for this yesterday. I repeat the thought in my head.  _ I’m taking control.  _ He’ll know for sure I’m exaggerating about my recovery if I can’t do this now. I can’t blow it.

   I nod three times, then stop, forcing my mouth into a half smile.  _ Just act like you don’t hear the numbers all around your head. Pretend they’re not there.  _

   “Very good,” Janson says approvingly. 

   “Thank you,” I say. 

   If I can do this a few more times, I’ll look sane. Sane enough to get out of here.

  
  
  
  


I don’t have to look up from my journal to know who’s entered the room. 

   “I’m assuming you’re writing about me?” Thomas asks.

   I laugh. “I’m writing the date, actually,” I say. 

   “That’s nowhere near as fun,” Thomas says, plopping down onto the bed next to me, putting his back against the headboard like mine.

   “Agreed,” I say. Thomas peeks over at the page, and I cover it quickly.

   “So you  _ were  _ writing about me?” Thomas asks with a smirk.

   “No,” I say too quickly. It’s true, I’m not, but I still don’t want anyone to read it. “I’m too afraid someone will take my journal and read it again.”

   Thomas frowns. “Well then you can talk to  _ me  _ about me.”

   I roll my eyes—just the once—before closing the journal and tossing it to the bottom of the bed. Thomas seems a lot better today than he was yesterday. He spent the majority of the day being angry at Vince, and I couldn’t blame him much for it. Vince was one of his biggest allies in here. 

   “Fine. Thomas, Thomas is being nosy,” I joke.

   Thomas fakes a hurt expression. “Whatever. Anyway, Janson went well?” 

   “I’d say so. He’s glad I’ve improved so much,” I say. Thomas gives me a slow nod. He seems uneasy. “What?”

   “It would be nice it that was all more… real,” Thomas says. He almost sounds afraid of my reaction, but I feel the same way he does. I don’t like having to pretend I’m better than I am.

   “It would,” I say. “But I  _ have  _ been doing kinda well, right?”

   “You have,” Thomas says. 

   I take his hand—because I want to, and also as an example. A few months ago, I couldn’t even imagine this. “I’d say  _ this _ is my biggest improvement yet.”

   “It’s definitely a huge one. So how are you  _ really  _ feeling about it?” he asks, smiling down at our hands.

   “If you want the truth, it’s still bloody terrifying to think about how I feel,” I say. 

   “About what specifically?” Thomas asks.

   “How I feel in general. How I felt about Alby. How I feel about…” I trail off. This is ridiculous already. He knows, so I might as well say it. It’s part of recovery. “You. How I feel about you, and trying to get used to the idea that it’s okay. Does that make sense?”

   “It does. But you’re doing great,” Thomas says. Somehow, he never makes me feel as weird as I think I should when telling him about things like my feelings for him. 

   I’m about to respond when I hear a voice. “Oh, hey guys.”

   It’s a knee-jerk reaction, but I quickly pull my hand back from Thomas’ as I turn to see Chuck in the doorway. So much for doing great. My face reddens, and Chuck tilts his head.

   “Hey, Chuck,” Thomas says, before turning to me. “Newt, it’s alright.”

_ Great, draw attention to it. _ Chuck grins. “Don’t worry, Newt, I won’t say anything,” he says, entering the room. Is this much anxiety normal? I feel like I was caught committing a crime. He grabs a board game from his side, then heads back to the door.  _ Should I say something?  _ What am I going to do? Deny what he literally just saw? Before he exits the room, he turns back one more time. “See? I told you that you’d like Thomas.”

   When he leaves, I close my eyes, taking a shaky breath. The list of people who know about me is growing. 

  
  
  
  


A nurse informs me that I need to go to the doctor’s office to get my ankle checked out, so I’m wheeled there after breakfast with no choice in the matter. I’m used to that sort of thing by now, though.

   When we get to the room, the door opens. I flinch, because it’s awfully close to hitting me, but what I see when I look up is worse.

   Ava Paige stares down at me for a second, then gives me an unsettling look. Her fake friendliness always makes my skin crawl. “Good morning, Newton,” she says.

   She doesn’t give me time to respond before she leaves the doorway, revealing Gally behind her. He’s breathing heavily, and he looks exhausted. One of his sleeves is rolled up, but I can’t see why with the nurse beside him holding his arm to guide him out. When he spots me, his eyes widen, but he doesn’t say a word.

   I know what they’re doing to him, and I want to scream at them all for it. 

   When they finally get me into the room and I’m faced with the doctor asking me questions, I can barely focus on giving the answers. Instead, I look around at all of the equipment in this hospital looking room that Gally must be terrified of now. What have they used on him? What’s kept in here?

   The doctor makes me take a few steps on my ankle to test my pain, and by the time I get to sit down, I’m at eight. 

   For Gally’s sake, I keep it that way.

  
  
  
  


“Guys, gather around,” Thomas says, to the already gathered group of Normals in the rec room.

   “Tommy, c’mon,” I say.

   “No, you can do it!” Thomas says.

   “What? Magic tricks?” Minho asks, turning away from the TV to face us. We’ve got everyone’s attention. 

   “Better. Show them,” Thomas says excitedly, tapping me on the shoulder like a five year old.

   I huff, but stand up anyway. Thomas takes five steps away from me, counting them out loud, then stays there.

   “This is ridiculous,” I say. 

   “It’ll be more ridiculous if you don’t do it,” Thomas says.

   I look at all of the Normals’ faces. They’re watching me, but it’s not so scary for some reason. 

   Chuck in particular looks proud. He’s been around for a few of my recovery steps, and since he saw me holding Thomas’ hand yesterday, he’s been glued to us. He also spent all of last night assuring me that he’s good at keeping secrets. I almost snapped and told him to stop talking about it, but I kept it inside. It’s not his fault that he happened to walk in at that moment.

   I try to relax myself, then I look at Thomas. His eyes are so hopeful—unlike when we met. I like to think that maybe I helped put a little of that hope in there. Just like the hope he’s given  _ me  _ by showing me it’s okay to be myself. The hope that this nightmare won’t be my life anymore.

   One limping step at a time, I cross the room to Thomas. I try not to count them, though. If I count them, I know the number will bother me like it did before. So when the numbers tick off in my head, I try to battle them with alternative thoughts. Healthy thoughts. Like how doing this will get me closer to helping my friends. Or how it’s okay to feel this whirlwind of emotions as I look at Thomas’ face when I finally reach him.  _ Everything is okay. I’m taking control. _

   It takes me a second to register the sound of clapping, and by the time I do, a nurse is telling them all to stop. Even though they begrudgingly listen, it still makes me grin. Instead of cheering, they all start congratulating me. Every single one of them.

   I’m so overwhelmed that all of the numbers start to get lost. The ache in my chest and the feeling like something is wrong aren’t gone, but as I thank everyone and look at Thomas’ proud stare, I wish more than anything that they were.

   I want recovery. I want to leave TIMI. But I don’t want to leave them.

  
  
  
  


“I wish I’d known you then, Tommy,” I say. 

   “I do too. Where were you when I was fifteen?” Thomas says. 

   We’re talking about school, and it’s occurring to me how much nicer my life would have been back then if Thomas was in it. Maybe I wouldn’t have repressed so much. 

   “At least I’ve got you now,” I say softly, lifting up my head to look at him. 

   We signed out a little movie player, and we’re lying on our stomachs on Thomas’ bed with the screen propped up against the headboard. I don’t think either of us are paying much attention to it. 

   I’m never in Thomas’ room, but Minho’s in the rec room, so Thomas thought we should hang out here for once. Minho winked at us and said not to do anything he would do before he walked out, and it left me both blushing and freaked out. Thomas says that’s just how Minho is, but I’m not so sure of that.

   Their room makes Chuck’s side of ours look spotless. They make us keep our rooms tidy to a point and I know they do inspections, but apparently they’ve given up on these two. Their clothes are everywhere, and anything you’re allowed to have is either on the floor or on one of their dressers. It’s as messy as it possibly can be here. So basically, it’s a teenage boy’s room. 

   Thomas nods, but doesn’t meet my eyes. “I’m really glad I met you,” he says. I know why he doesn’t  _ sound  _ glad right now.

   I sit up, and Thomas follows suit, flipping over and propping himself up on his elbows to face me. His face has kinda dropped, and I want to change that. 

   “You know how much you’ve helped me, right?” I say, nudging his shoulder. 

   Thomas chuckles, but it’s still not the kind I’m aiming for. “I just told you the truth.”

   “But it made me realize that I could actually recover from my illness. I always thought nothing could be done for me,” I say. “My OCD ruined my life. It’s ruined my education, my relationships, my health—everything. You’ve helped me realize that I don’t deserve that. That I can take control back.”

   “You’re going to do great out there,” Thomas says after a moment. “I hope you don’t forget any of that.”

   He’s so genuine that it makes me even sadder. I think that Thomas has more faith in me than I do. Every time he brings up my leaving, I know that he truly wants that victory for me. I want it for him just as much.

   I look at the door. Nobody is standing there. Then, I look back at Thomas. 

   A normal life. That’s all either of us want. A way to get by, and a way to get better. A way for the world to understand us and be a nicer place for everyone because of it. That’s the dream, isn’t it? Recovery, or some kind of balance that lets you lead a good life?

   I lean down and gently kiss Thomas. He sits up more to meet me, and it’s quick, but just as meaningful as any other time. It’s as close to any kind of normal that the two of us can achieve in here, because being ill doesn’t mean there’s nothing underneath. Our lives aren’t fair. Not having a typically functioning brain isn’t fair. But there’s more to us. We’re not reminded of that enough. We’re worthy, too. 

   There’s a life for Thomas that I can practically see dangling in front of me as I pull away and look at the expression on his face I was waiting to see. It’s a life where he’s found a way to cope with what he has, and he doesn’t need to be in a place like this anymore. Where he’s truly happy, and that light is always in his eyes.

   “I’ll never forget,” I promise him. 

  
  
  
  


I wake up in an odd mood. Not a bad one, but a different one. 

   As I get ready, I try to put my finger on why. There’s something there that feels like anxiety, but it’s not. Anticipation, maybe? But for what?

   I’m doing my tens for walking, but I’m not really thinking about them.  _ You don’t need these.  _ My tens have become my enemy, whereas they used to feel like a friend. Something comforting. But that was just another lie I told myself. 

   In the bathroom, I don’t count out how long I wash my hands. I just wish that the little voice in my head telling me I need to would shut up. Even if I  _ can _ physically force myself not to do my tens, it doesn’t mean my brain has caught up yet. 

   It’s the twentieth now. The past few weeks have flown by; which is something nobody would expect to hear from someone in here. But it makes no sense to me that I haven’t even known Thomas or Chuck for two months yet. It feels like I’ve been friends with them for years. 

   As I turn the water off, I finally start to identify how I feel. Not understanding it at first is making more sense now, because it’s not a feeling I’m so familiar with. 

_ Better.  _ I feel better. Not perfect, but not my worst. Even just waking up without the usual level of anxiety is miraculous to me, and lately, I’ve been performing miracles left and right.

   When I look at my reflection in the mirror, I hope for a good future for the battle-worn boy staring back. 

  
  
  
  


I share in group today. Everyone looks shocked to hear me say I’ll speak, but I try not to think about it so much. I don’t look up once I start talking in an effort to forget that I’m not alone.

   “I’ve been sticking to the goals I shared a few days ago. It’s going really well, and for the first time in a long time, I’m actually happy,” I say. 

   Ava Paige is smiling when I look up, hopefully signifying that she bought it. “I’m very happy to hear that, Newton,” she says. 

   Regardless of how I feel, I was going to say that anyway. But now, I feel like at least some of it may be truthful.

   When group is finished, I get up and turn to Thomas to say something, but he beats me to it.

   “I’m going to hang back for a minute, do you mind if Chuck takes you to lunch?” Thomas asks. Chuck must hear his name, because he appears next to us.

   I frown at Thomas. “Hang back? For what?” 

   “Don’t worry about it, I just have a question. I’ll meet you guys there,” Thomas says. He’s gone from my side before I can even get another question out, and I watch him run over to Ava Paige.

   “Guess I’m taking you, then. Let’s go, I’m hungry,” Chuck says nonchalantly before beginning to turn away.

   “Wait, Chuck, do you know what that was about?” I ask. I figured if Thomas had something to say to Ava, he’d tell me about it. 

   “It could be anything with Thomas,” Chuck says with a shrug.  _ Well  _ that’s  _ comforting.  _

   I go to look back at Thomas again, but now, he’s nowhere to be seen. 

  
  
  
  


Thomas doesn’t walk into the room until lunch is nearly over. I’ve been worrying this whole time, and Chuck noticed, assuring me that he was fine. It was appreciated, but I don’t believe things until I see them.

   He sits down at the table and looks between us. “Hey guys,” he says casually.

   “What was that? Did something happen?” I ask quickly. 

   “Nothing happened, it was just a question about a medication dosage. I’d tell you if something was wrong,” Thomas says. 

   Thomas wouldn’t lie to me. I nod, deciding to let the issue go. It makes me happy to see how proud he still looks of the typically simple gesture coming from me. Even nodding is still somewhat difficult, and we both know it. When I think about that, I’m actually proud of myself too.

  
  
  
  


In the rec room after dinner, Thomas and I are awfully close. What have I got to lose, really? Chuck and Minho obviously don’t care, and it feels good to sit with my friends and watch TV while I have a quiet side conversation with Thomas. Our hands do this nice thing while we’re talking, where they’re kinda clasped together but always moving or tracing things with our fingers. I can almost pretend we aren’t here.

   This is another great aspect of recovery for me. Getting free from my illness means letting myself enjoy even the little things that would usually horrify me. It makes me hate my OCD more than ever. I was robbed of stuff like this for way too long. 

   I burst out laughing after Thomas tries to imitate my accent. “What? I sound  _ exactly  _ like you,” Thomas says, laughing too. It’s a great sound.

   “I don’t sound like that at all, and I’ve never said the word ‘blimey’ in my life,” I say, calming down. 

   “Fine, but everything else was right,” Thomas says. “How have you held onto the accent for so long?”

   I shrug. “My dad has it, and it was all I knew growing up,” I say.

   “Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but I’d figure after twelve years it’d kinda fade,” Thomas says. 

   “I guess I just don’t want to let it go,” I say, after considering that for a moment. It’s a part of me. I’ve never even thought about it; it’s just who I am. 

   “That’s understandable. Do you ever think about going back? To England?” Thomas asks.

   I narrow my eyes at him. “What’re you doing?”

   “Just asking questions,” Thomas says too innocently. 

   “Sometimes. It’d be nice to visit,” I finally answer his question. It sounds an awful lot like he’s about to counsel me.

   “Newton?”

   Thomas and I both turn to face the door. There’s a nurse standing there, and he catches my eye. “There’s a call for you,” he says. 

   I get up, and Thomas helps me to my chair. I’m not entirely sure why, since aside from a limp he knows I’m fine to walk, but I’m not complaining. 

   Walking is still my hardest compulsion to break, so I do my tens now. When I get a feeling of shame from it, I try to remember it. This is not something I want for the rest of my life. 

   The nurse takes me to the phone room, and when I finally get on the phone with my mom, it’s not so difficult hearing her voice this time. 

   “Newt, sweetheart, how are you?” she says. 

   “I’m good,” I say, partly so that she’s not so worried, and partly meaning it. “How are you guys?”

   “We’ve gotten everything we need, and we talked to our lawyer. We really want you home as soon as you’re ready, so are you  _ actually _ good? Have you been getting better like you said?” 

   My blood runs cold. I knew this was coming, but for some reason, it fills me with panic. This is what I wanted, right? To get out? I clutch the phone tightly in my hand.

   “Um,” I say. “I have been.”

   “Well enough to pass an examination?” she asks. 

   This should be a good thing. This  _ is  _ a good thing. So why does it feel like someone’s placed a ton of bricks on my chest? “I think so.” I can’t lie to her. I’m fairly confident I can be good enough to pass now.

   “You can’t be there forever, honey. You should be at home. With us,” Mom says.

   For some reason,  _ that  _ strikes a nerve. 

   “What does that even  _ mean  _ now?” I say frustratedly. She doesn’t reply.  _ What am I doing? _ “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, I just—”

   “Don’t apologize. I understand,” Mom says. I upset her. I have to stop doing that.

   “I know I shouldn’t be in here anymore,” I say, my tone softening. I’m overwhelmed. I’m  _ extremely  _ overwhelmed. The urge to shake my leg in tens is so bad that I have to physically stop myself.

   “So can we start the process?” Mom asks.

   Why is it that every time I talk to her I wind up tearing up or crying? This could be it. The end of my time here. I hate this place, and I hate Ava Paige. But it’s more than that now. And there’s nothing I can do about it. My mother is right, I can’t be in here forever—even if I wish some aspects could last. 

   “Yeah,” I say, my voice tight. “You can.”

   She begins describing what will happen next, but I don’t hear her over the pounding of my heart and my thoughts of how to tell Thomas. But even worse than that, I’m also plagued with one more thing that consumes my brain. 

   Wondering how to leave him. 


	45. forty five

My hearing is tomorrow. It would be today, but today happens to be Thanksgiving. 

   I’ve been feeling utterly sick. I had about six near-breakdowns yesterday, and Thomas has been my rock; curbing my anxiety and keeping me from losing it. Unfortunately, that only makes it worse.

   I sit up in bed, and Chuck looks at me. “Morning,” he says. He’s been acting strange since I told him about the hearing. I can’t blame him, but it only makes it harder. 

   “Morning,” I say back. He gives me something that looks like it was meant to be a smile, then goes back to looking through his clothes.

   Group today will be weird, because I have to sit there in the room with the person trying to keep me here against my will. There wouldn’t even have to be a hearing if Ava Paige wasn’t trying to make me an involuntary patient.

   The messed up thing is that I don’t know what scares me more. Having to stay, or getting to leave.

   My hearing is going to be taking place in some room in the main building. I’ve been trying to keep my motivation in mind. I have to get better, and I can’t do anything for my friends from in here.

   In other words, the pressure is on.

  
  
  
  


“They might win,” I say. It’s weird being somewhat in the same position as Fry was a week ago. The Normals are all listening to me, and I’m the center of all conversation. But the difference between Fry and me is that Frypan earned his discharge date. He worked hard, recovered, and they let him go. In my case, they’re fighting as hard as they can to keep me here. 

   “Don’t worry about that, they won’t,” Thomas says. 

   “How could you know that, though?” I ask, turning to him. 

   “If you’re better, then you can go, right?” Minho asks. 

   “Yes, exactly,” Thomas says. 

   I shake my head. “It’s different with me. They’re probably going to use everything they’ve got against me, like the accident and…” I trail off, looking at Thomas. “Our leaving.”

   “It’ll be fine, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Thomas says.  _ I’m not so sure about that.  _ “I just can’t believe they’re still making you do this stupid trial.”

   We both know why they want me here, and I don’t think it has anything to do with my accident or what Thomas and I did when we left. It’s the information I have. The moment I get discharged, I’m no longer just some crazy kid who’s word is meaningless. I could take them down. 

   But from in here, I’m useless.

   “You’ll get out. You’re doing a lot better,” Chuck says quietly. 

   Thomas nudges Chuck. “We can bring our sleepovers back,” he says cheerfully.

   Chuck begins to smile. “Really? You think?” 

   “I know,” Thomas says. 

   It helps me to know that the Normals will have each other. Thomas and Chuck especially. But regardless, it feels like I’m abandoning them, and I’m losing them for sure. My first real friends in who knows how long. I know I’m leaving to try to protect them, but the selfish part of me isn’t ready to say goodbye. 

   “You’ll do just fine. It’s not as scary as you think,” Jeff says. 

   “See? We all know you’re good enough to go, Newt. You have nothing to be nervous about,” Thomas says. He takes my hand that’s resting on the table and holds it in his, looking at me seriously. “I promise.”

   “Okay,” I say. He smiles, and just like every other time since I agreed to the trial that I’ve felt the comfort just a simple word or expression of his gives me, I feel a piece of me shatter. 

  
  
  
  


“Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. I’d like to go around and have everyone share something they’re thankful for, or proud of. It’s important to keep the positives in mind during recovery,” Ava Paige says. 

   That’s a tough one. I’m in a psych ward, I’ve got a broken ankle, my parents are splitting up, and I may either have to leave Thomas or be forced to stay while TIMI drugs it’s patients. I’m not finding a lot of blessings to count here.

   I can imagine everyone else is having a similar dilemma, because they all take a long time to think of an answer. Some people wind up saying they’re thankful for a pet, or thankful for a family member. Chuck says he’s thankful for his friends, and looks at all of the Normals in the room. 

   When it reaches Thomas, he nods to Chuck. “What Chuck said,” Thomas says. 

   “Is there anything of your own you can think of?” Dr. Paige says. I cringe. It’d be in her best interest to not push Thomas.

   “Yeah, I guess,” Thomas says, looking at her with the deadly glare only she and Janson can bring out in him. “I’m thankful for honest people. Honorable people. People that keep promises.”

   I get that he’s talking about WCKD, but what promise? Ava Paige nods, then quickly turns to me as I hear Thomas scoff from next to me. Maybe someday she’ll learn not to engage with him. 

   “I’m thankful that I’ve been able to recover,” I start shakily. I’ve had a bit of time to think while everyone else went, but I never quite feel prepared. “I’m also glad I’ve had such good people to help me figure myself out.” 

   Dr. Paige looks more emotionless than usual. “Thank you for sharing,” she says, before moving on. It gives me a pain in my chest. She really doesn’t want me to leave.

  
  
  
  


Thomas is coaching me through ERP exercises in the rec room, meaning I’m doing this in front of everyone in there. The Normals are all giving me random stuff to do, and I appreciate the help a lot, but I’m getting really overwhelmed. The past two days have just been too much, and I’m on the verge of snapping. But for now, I push the bad thoughts away, and try to stay in the moment. 

   Every time I complete one of the things they ask, I find myself looking at Thomas. His expression has gotten a lot harder to read. He looks happy still, and definitely proud, but there’s a sadness there that’s hard to miss. Chuck looks the same, but he’s not as good at hiding it. 

   I keep coming back to the thought that I do not want to leave Thomas. Whenever I try to think of how I’m going to say goodbye, my anxiety flares up and I have to stop. Being back at home in my normal room without Chuck, then getting out of bed and not seeing Thomas waiting for me outside my door is going to feel so strange now. I’ve gotten used to my routine here—and the people that come with it.

   So, I try to appreciate them as best I can while they’re in front of me. 

   “Newt, try snapping your fingers twice,” Jeff chimes in.

   I frown. “I’ve never tried that before,” I say. That’s scary, trying a new one in front of everyone.

   “You can do it, just try,” Zart says.

   Thomas nods, so I shrug. “Fine,” I say. I snap my fingers, putting my mind on autopilot. Once, twice. Then, a third time. I stop quickly, making my hand into a fist. My face goes pink. Was that on purpose? Or was that just a reflex? “I-I didn’t mean to do that.”

   “That’s okay,” Thomas says, putting a hand on my shoulder. I flinch at it. Not because I don’t want him to touch me, but because I know that the second I let him help me, it’ll remind me of the inevitable. “It’s fine, it was just—”

   “What if it’s not fine? What if I do that tomorrow? Or something worse?” I ask, cutting him off. I can feel myself beginning to be frantic, keeping my voice low. Thomas won’t be there to reassure me tomorrow. I’ll be on my own. 

   “Newt, it was one mistake. Not even a big one, you’re just used to it. You stopped, that’s what matters,” Thomas says. 

   But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Because I made a mistake. I’m making a mistake. It’s all a mistake—three times or ten times, it makes no difference, because both are wrong. All of it is wrong, everything I do is  _ wrong.  _

   I stand up before I can rationalize it. All I know is that I can’t be here anymore. Then, I look over at my wheelchair as I feel Thomas stand next to me. My world narrows. One clear string of thoughts. Do I walk away or get in the chair and wheel myself? Walking will be slower, because—

   “My tens,” I say, finishing the sentence aloud.

   Thomas stands in front of me. “Newt, what is it?” he asks, forcing eye contact that I try desperately to avoid.  

   I’m on one. The evil part of me makes me want to walk away. Nine more steps. Even everything out, so that maybe this anxiety will go away. I’m starting to get that paralyzed feeling I haven’t had in a while. Again, everything is wrong. Nothing is the right thing to do.

   My eyes are beginning to tear up, and I blink to try to stop it, and Thomas seems to recognize what’s happening, because he turns around, heading for my chair. 

   “Go back to what you were doing, guys,” Thomas says, bringing the chair over to me. The world sounds vaguely fuzzy. I wish I could have that feeling of being far away, but I am all too grounded, and very much aware that I’m in this moment in time where I can’t move and can’t do a thing about it. “Newt,” Thomas says quietly. I manage to meet his eyes again. “Sit down.”

   “Okay,” the only sane part of me mumbles, sitting in the chair. This will happen tomorrow. I can’t do anything about it. I’ll mess up, they’ll know I’m a fraud, and they’ll keep me here forever. Do I deserve to be here forever? 

   Thomas starts pushing me, and I focus on breathing. I want to talk and tell Thomas how I feel, but if I try, I’ll probably start crying. My skin feels too tight.  _ Everything  _ feels too tight.

   We get to my room and it eases a bit of the fear that I’m being watched and judged by everyone, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve failed. Thomas stands in front of me.

   “It doesn’t count right now, you’re okay, you can just stand up—”

   “Don’t,” I say sharply. “Don’t rationalize it for me.”

   Thomas hesitates. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but the more he helps me rationalize my tens, the more encouraged to continue them I’ll be. I’ve already got enough of that. 

   “If you can’t stand up, that’s okay,” Thomas says. 

   “I can’t,” I say shakily. “I can’t do this, I can’t do anything. It’s too much, I’ve done too much and I won’t be able to fake it tomorrow.” My words spill out like the dam inside my brain keeping them in just broke. I can’t control it.

   “I saw what happened, and it was just one small thing. The number itself didn’t matter. You did it,” Thomas counters.

   “It matters because I  _ wanted  _ to complete the ten. Just like I want to right now. The numbers haven’t gone away, and now I’ll be failing everyone tomorrow when I can’t complete a simple task like snapping my fingers once, or walking, or anything else any normal person wouldn’t have a problem with,” I say, my voice getting louder to match my frustration. 

   “Listen, Newt, it’ll be okay. I’m here, alright?” Thomas says. 

   “You’re  _ not  _ here,” I say, my voice breaking. “Don’t you get it? You won’t be there, I won’t have you, and I can’t do this without you.”

   I only look at Thomas’ face for a moment before the inevitable happens—I finally let my tears fall. Crying out of being overwhelmed is an awful feeling. I reach up and rub my eyes to avoid looking at him. The more I will myself to calm down, the worse it gets. This sense of urgency and nothing to help it. 

   Thomas crouches down next to me. Part of me wants to tell him to leave me be, but I know I’ll regret it instantly. He goes to reach his hand out, but takes it back. I hate that.

   “Newt…” he trails off. “You  _ can  _ do this. You don’t need me as much as you think you do.”

   I shake my head, trying to scoff but it comes out as something choked up. Adding embarrassment to the list of what I’m feeling right now wasn’t the plan. “How would you know that? I’m barely able to pull it together  _ with  _ you.”

   “Yes you are. Even if I taught you how, it was all  _ you  _ that actually did it. Not me,” Thomas says. 

   I keep shaking my head. Not ten times. More, probably. I’m not keeping track. The tears keep coming and I don’t want to be in this chair anymore. I stand up again, surprising Thomas, who has to stand up with me. 

   “I’m not ready,” I say, taking uneven breaths to try to calm myself down. It doesn’t work. Nothing is working, and he still won’t understand. I figured it was obvious. Why else would I be having such a hard time with going? Why else would I be freaking out every time it comes up? “I’m not ready to leave you.” 

   Thomas doesn’t answer. What is he supposed to even say to that? What did I expect? He can’t help me with this one. I start to regret saying it in the first place when he steps closer and hugs me. 

   I hug him back immediately, burying my face in the crook of his neck and letting myself cry. It feels safe with him. That thought makes it even worse, and I feel him squeeze me tight, holding me steady. Despite how awful I’m feeling, and where we are, I’d stay like this for a week if I could. 

   Thomas represents a lot in my mind. He’s one of the only people—if not the  _ only  _ person—that sees me for more than my OCD. He’s safety; the one protecting me from TIMI and WCKD, and a place away from the problems with my parents. He’s also recovery; he’s helped me realize who I am and let me know that being me can be my cure. 

   But aside from all of that, he’s just  _ Thomas. _ He’s a part of me now, and here or not, that’ll never go away. His mind is captivating to me. He’s so smart, and thinks in a whole different way than anyone I’ve ever met before. His heart is beautiful, he cares about people deeply and he’ll fight to protect them. I wish he didn’t have whatever he has, because I know that if the world saw who he is beneath it, a lot more people would appreciate him for it. 

   “I want you to go. I want you to recover and be happy,” Thomas says, still hugging me. He sounds choked up too. I know the sound well at this point. “But do you really think there isn’t a selfish part of me that doesn’t want to lose you?”

   He doesn’t want to lose me either. For some reason, despite it being sad, it makes me feel a little better that he feels the same way. Part of me knew, but hearing him say it is different. It makes it realer. “How am I supposed to go?” I ask. 

   Thomas pulls away, and I quickly wipe the tears from my eyes, sniffling. How many times have we cried in front of each other at this point?

   “You’re supposed to get better, and make yourself happy. That’s what I want for you,” Thomas says. “I know you can do it, and so do you. This place isn’t helping, especially since you know what you need now. You’re going to be okay.”

   Being happy. That sounds nice, but Thomas won’t be there. He should be there. “This isn’t fair,” I say. “You shouldn’t be in here either. I’m going to get you out of here.”

   Thomas gives me a hint of a smile, but it disappears quickly as I see the tears welling up in his eyes. “You can still try to expose TIMI. They should be taken down. But focus on yourself for a bit too, alright? Like I told you, I’d just be taken to another one anyway, so don’t worry about me or getting me out,” Thomas says.

   “How am I supposed to just not worry about you?” I ask. He just looks at me. “I’m not giving up on you, Tommy. Even if you’ve given up on yourself.”

   It’s his turn now to rub his eyes. He always looks so vulnerable when he cries. It quickly breaks the illusion of being this dangerous and hardened to the world delinquent that TIMI thinks he is. Sometimes I think he even buys into that image, but I know it’s just a front. What he really is inside is a scared kid, and that kills me. 

   “You can—um,” Thomas says, stalling his words. I know not to interrupt. “You can do this. Tomorrow, they’ll see that you’ve improved. You don’t have to be perfect. As long as you can function, and you’re not a danger to yourself or someone else, you’ll be fine.”

   “What if I freak out again and mess it up?” I ask.

   “You won’t. I believe in you,” Thomas says. He sounds a lot more sure than I am. “So let’s try to enjoy the rest of the day; while I’ve still got you.” 

   I nod. Spending what could be one of my last days with Thomas crying probably isn’t a great idea. “Thank you,” I say. 

   “For what?” Thomas asks. 

   I don’t think I could get through the list without bursting into tears again. “Just… thank you.”

   Thomas looks like he understands now. “Thank you, too,” he says. 

   I don’t want to leave him, but if getting out of here is my best shot at getting him the life he should have, I’ll do it. 

  
  
  
  


Since it’s Thanksgiving, dinner is different tonight. We have turkey, cranberry sauce, and some questionable stuffing that Minho is currently poking at with his fork, grimacing. 

   “This stuff is nasty,” Minho says. Nobody’s exactly in the holiday spirit. It’s a strange day to even acknowledge in here, since it’s so family oriented. A lot of people got visitors today, but it’s just made the mood more gloomy. 

   “Agreed,” Aris mumbles. He takes a sip of his drink, then stares back down at his plate. I know he has no choice but to eat it all, so I feel awful for him. 

   “Aris,” I say. He looks up at me. I give him an encouraging smile. “You’re doing great.”

   Aris’ face lights up. “Thanks,” he says. I can tell he doesn’t hear it enough. 

   “Since not all of you are in group with me,” Chuck starts randomly, loudly talking over any other conversation going on. He looks pleased when he has all of our attention. “I wanted to say that I’m thankful for you guys. This day is about family, and you  _ are  _ my family. So I’m glad that if I’m here, I’m here with you.” 

   I’m automatically worried that Chuck will be scolded for even mentioning the holiday, but everyone’s expressions seem to soften. I can imagine it’s somewhat impossible to be angry at Chuck, especially after something so sincere. The Normals all begin to tell Chuck they’re thankful for him too, and I love the look he gets on his face. He deserves that kind of thing from his parents, but if he can’t get that, I’m glad he at least has it here. 

   Thanksgiving at home has always been odd. My mother only has her sister, so she’s the only family that would wind up coming over. It’s always been quiet and underwhelming, so having it here in TIMI isn’t all that bad to me. I didn’t even notice the time going by in here, like Halloween coming and going without a trace. Not that it would have made much of a difference, anyway. 

   I remember that when Alby and Teresa were dating, Easter fell in that time period. They weren’t together long at that point, yet Alby spent the holiday with her. That struck me as extremely weird back then—although that might have just had something to do with my feelings for him. Either way, I didn’t know why he’d want to be with his girlfriend instead of his family. When I asked, he just said that it’s special to have holidays with the person you like. I thought that was ridiculous.

   Now, I gaze at Thomas as he scoops up his food and responds to something Chuck is saying to him. Despite the circumstances, I’m spending Thanksgiving with him. As much as I hate to admit it, if we weren’t in here, I think I’d like that a lot. A normal holiday with Thomas. With or without our broken families by our side. I can’t help but think it’d feel a little less broken with him there. 

   “Tommy,” I say, nudging him with my elbow and getting his attention. “I’m thankful for you, y’know. It’s a weird holiday to talk about in here, I know, and I’m sorry if it’s a hard thing to even—”

   “Newt,” Thomas says, cutting me off before I can ramble on more. I’m glad, since saying any of that was embarrassing enough. He looks at me sincerely. “I’m thankful for you too.”

   “Being with you makes the day… nice,” I say stupidly, cringing at my words. Thomas grins. “I’m new to this,” I add, making Thomas laugh. 

   “Don’t worry, I love it,” Thomas says, easing my awkwardness. “It’s a weird holiday for me, obviously. Usually I just ignore it. But you’re giving me something to like about it.” 

   I almost tell him my little fantasy about the future with him. Almost. But instead of potentially humiliating myself further, I change the subject. “What did you mean in group earlier?” 

   Thomas shrugs quickly. “The usual.”

   “About WCKD?” I ask quietly. Thomas nods. “What did you mean by keeping promises?”

   “She said she’d help me adjust my medication, that’s all. Don’t worry about it,” Thomas says. I go to say something else, but Thomas speaks before I can. “They usually play a movie in the rec room today, do you wanna hang out in there with the rest of the Normals after dinner?”

   “Uh, sure,” I say. I might as well. Maybe it’ll take my mind off of tomorrow. 

   “Great,” Thomas says. This might be the last time we can ever sit down and watch a movie together.

   I can’t think about it. I can’t think about it. 

  
  
  
  


When I get back to my room from talking to my mom on the phone—details about tomorrow that I tried and failed to listen to—I’m drained. The rest of the night has been fine, but all I’ve been doing is hiding my fear. It’s not gone, and neither is my OCD, anxiety, or unwillingness to leave Thomas. 

   Chuck looks up when I’m wheeled in, but he waits until the nurse leaves to speak. “Was that your mom?” he asks.

   I stand up, walking to the bed and sitting down.  _ Three steps. It was three steps.  _ “It was,” I say. 

   “About tomorrow, I guess?” Chuck says. He sounds like he’s trying to appear overly detached to the situation. Like he couldn’t care less about the phone call or the trial. 

   “Yeah,” I say cautiously. Chuck nods once. I hate seeing him like this, and I hate being the one that’s causing it. Telling him that it’s okay to be upset sounds cliche, so I decide to try a different approach to get him to talk to me. “If I do get out tomorrow, I’m going to miss you so much, Chuck.”

   He winces for half a second, then hardens up his expression. “It’s your choice to leave, right?” he asks, his tone flat. 

   I want to explain everything going on with TIMI and WCKD and tell him why I can’t be here anymore. But I can’t. So I don’t. “It’s not up to me anymore. It’s just about if I’m well enough to go,” I say.

   “How are you well enough? If you’re well enough, why did you start freaking out in the rec room?” Chuck asks, anger seeping through his words. He blinks rapidly, and before I know it, his eyelashes are wet.

   Part of me knows he just doesn’t want me to leave, but the other part is telling me he’s right. His words hurt more with every passing second, the number  _ three  _ nagging me incessantly while his breathing gets more labored. “Chuck,” I say, feeling that awful sickness spread through me for the thousandth time today. “I’m sorry,” is all that I manage.  _ He’s right.  _

   “You escaped with Thomas, and now you’re just escaping again,” Chuck says, getting up from his bed. I want to tell him to stop, but my voice isn’t working. “I hope they make the right choice,” Chuck mumbles before walking out. It’s after ten. I have no clue where he’s going.

   Thomas would tell me he’s only saying these things because he’s upset. It may be true, but he also might have still meant what he said. I  _ know  _ he meant it, because he’s right. Everything he said was true. 

   I put my face in my hands, trying to breathe regularly to stop the dread and the numbers and everything else making me feel like my body is about to just shut down. Chuck is my friend. He’s like a brother, and now he’s going to hate me for leaving him just like his parents and his real brother did.

_ I’m trying to protect him.  _ The logical part of me tries to remind myself of my vow to get Chuck out of here and that I can’t do it from in here. So why does it feel so wrong? 

   I lie down, curling myself up and shutting my eyes tight. Every option is bad again. I don’t deserve to leave, and if I get to, I’ll be leaving Chuck and Thomas. If I don’t, I’ll never be able to save them from this place. I’m alone, and all eyes are on me. It’s all on me. 

   There’s a shout from the hallway that takes me a moment to register as Chuck’s. I need to go to him. Someone needs to help him. 

   But I can’t move. 

_    Take control.  _ I can’t do anything but squeeze my eyes shut tighter, shivering from the anxiety that takes over my body like something supernatural. 

_    Take control.  _ If one outcome makes me a fraud and the other makes me a failure, why should I bother?

_ Take control.  _ Their fate is in my hands.  _ My  _ fate is in my hands. 

   Without a doubt, no matter what happens, tomorrow is going to be one of the worst days of my life. And there is absolutely nothing I can do to stop it.


	46. forty six

Everything is a blur. In some ways that’s a good thing, because the longer I let myself stay focused and in the moment, the higher my chances are of freaking out. For example, when I get my dress shirt on that my mother brings to me, I don’t remember actually getting changed.

   Small details catch my eye and stick with me. Things like Chuck’s snoring while my mom wheels me out of the room, or the smell of her perfume—her good one, if I recall correctly. The chill of the November air outside making my hands and nose freeze up.

   I’m exhausted, but my anxiety starts to wake me up as she brings me further into the main building. Apparently I don’t actually have much to do. My only real job is to pass the examination. It’ll be done by someone that doesn’t work at TIMI, so that’s an advantage on my part. My only disadvantage is literally everything else.

   We stop at a large black door, and my mother fusses with my hair, making me wince.

   “Are you ready, sweetie?” she asks.

   “I don’t know how to answer that,” I say, mostly to myself. I’m not ready for a lot of things that come with this. I’m still not sure if I’m even well enough; especially since Chuck’s freakout last night. Thomas seems to think I am, but he’s not here to tell me that now.

   “Preferably with a yes,” Mom says. I don’t know why I bothered doing anything but lying.

   “Then yes,” I say.

   She pushes the door open, and I hold it as she wheels me into the room. It’s decently sized. I see a few people from TIMI that I recognize—obviously including Dr. Paige and Dr. Janson—along with a whole bunch of people I don’t recognize. It’s not that hard to figure out who the judge is.

   About now is when I start wondering what a sane person looks like. It’s like when I was younger and would be accused of lying about something, then I’d overthink every little thing I did, trying to make sure I didn’t look like a liar. Would a sane person look nervous, or relaxed? Would a sane person sit like this? What will make me look like I still belong here?

   My dad is in here already. I haven’t seen him in a while, so when I catch his eye, it gives me anxiety. The first thing that comes to mind is the time he met Thomas and was blatantly rude to him. Defensiveness flares up in me, but I have to not focus on that right now. Bigger fish to fry.

   I’m brought up to the front, and my mind is elsewhere. It has to be. The only problem is that the majority of the places my brain likes to go to are Thomas related. For example, when I see Ava Paige, all I can wonder is what she’ll do to Thomas if I leave.

   But maybe it’s a good thing to keep in mind, because the only way to stop her is getting through this trial. I don’t want to leave Thomas, but I _do_ want to keep him safe the same way he’s kept me safe. Thomas is owed that.

   My parents talk to the lawyer, and I tune them out. I know my role already. Be sane. That’s it. My wheelchair and broken ankle aren’t exactly helping my case, considering how it happened. But I have to stick to my story that it was entirely by accident. That’s another thing I have to worry about.

   It’s surreal to be here, actually. After everything, it comes down to a few moments of trying to prove myself. Of course, this may be over as soon as it starts once we get into what happened when I escaped. I’m not sure if I committed any crimes myself, but I know Thomas did.

   Eventually, the judge starts talking and everyone is seated. I don’t understand much of what he says, aside from that we’re here to discuss the petition to have me involuntarily committed made by Dr. Paige. The part that catches my attention is when they say I’ll be taken into a separate room to do the examination.

   It’s odd to be the center of attention this strongly. We’re all here because of me; to discuss me. I’ve always had a problem with being stared at, but right now, there’s so much of it that I almost can’t find it in me to care.

   A few legal things are discussed, then before I know it I’m being taken to an adjoining room with a woman I assume is the medical examiner. I’m glad I get to do this before we get into Ava Paige’s case against me, because maybe if I manage to pass, her arguments will hold less weight.

   No more zoning out. Not yet, anyway. This part is important.

   “Hello, Newton. I’m Dr. Ximena,” the medical examiner says, closing the door behind us. She seems friendly enough.

   “It’s nice to meet you,” I say. That’s a normal thing to say, right?

   “You as well,” Dr. Ximena says, coming back around in front of me.

   The best way to describe this room would be saying that it looks like they started making it a therapist’s office, but halfway through it changed their minds and made it a hospital room instead. All the medical supplies, but tan walls and decorations. Books and a filing cabinet, but a metal table on the other side.

   She observes me for a moment, sitting down in a rolling chair across from me. I give her an awkwardly polite look, because I’m definitely not speaking first. She’s young, and she’s got long, shiny black hair that covers the visitors mane tag she’s wearing. I’m glad she sounds sweet, but now she’s starting to freak me out.

   “So, tell me how you think you’ve improved in your time here,” she finally says.

   I’m actually grateful for the opportunity to start talking. “Well, I came here for my OCD. So—”

   “Along with anxiety and depression, correct?” Dr. Ximena cuts in.

   “Correct,” I say hesitantly. “But OCD was the main reason. I had my routine; my tens. Ten steps, then snapping my fingers ten times. Also a few other things, but all the same number.”

   “How have you improved, then?” she asks.

    _I was getting to that._ “A few weeks ago, I figured out what was causing my OCD. It was a control issue. But since then, I’ve started doing ERP exercises, and I’ve been able to break all of my compulsions. I’m feeling a lot better,” I say. _Am I overselling it?_

   “What’s the control issue you’re referring to?” she asks.

   I knew she’d ask this, but it makes me uncomfortable anyway. “I was having problems coming to terms with the things in my life that I have no control over. My parents are getting divorced, and growing up I kinda helped them get through arguments. But I always felt responsible. Now I know that it’s not on me to help them, and I can’t control the state of their relationship,” I say. I wonder if she can tell that I don’t mean a word of this. Thomas coached me on this part.

   “Anything else?” she asks.

   “I was also made to move here when I was a kid, and that bothered me, having no control over it, I guess,” I say. I feel the need to tell myself that it’s not true, just for the principal of the thing. “But I’m aware of that now.”

   “That’s all?” Dr. Ximena asks.

   “The only other thing is something I went through with an old friend of mine,” I say. There is no way I’m going to blow it on _this._ “I was repressing feelings I had that I can’t help.”

   “And you’re no longer repressing them?”

    _Don’t choke up._ “No, I’m not. I didn’t understand it until recently, but now that I do, I’ve been able to see my OCD for what it is,” I say.

   “We’ll get into that in a moment, but first, do you mind telling me about how this happened?” Dr. Ximena asks, pointing to my cast.

   “It was a misunderstanding. I was knocked into the street by another patient, and I didn’t see the car coming. My ankle was broken when I stumbled back, then a friend of mine saved me. That’s all,” I say. My delivery is casual—too casual.

   “Dr. Janson’s file states otherwise,” Dr. Ximena says.

    _Stay calm._ “He didn’t believe me when I told him what happened,” I say.

   Dr. Ximena is silent for a moment, then she nods. “Pretending for a moment that Dr. Janson was right, how are you feeling now in comparison? I know the accident came the day after your parents told you about the divorce?”

    _So you don’t believe me,_ I want to say. “It was unfortunate timing,” I say, fighting to stay polite. “But I feel a lot better. Happier. That was nearly six weeks ago now, so my ankle is feeling better too.”

   “Okay, and how have you been with your anxiety? When was the last bad attack and how would you rank it compared to the worst it’s ever been?” she asks.

   “I’m doing well on my medication,” I say. That’s a lie too. “My last attack was… I think when I started my ERP exercises. But lately, on a scale from one to ten, it’s at about a three, but that’s just from being here.”

   “Alright,” Dr. Ximena says. “Do you think we could go through a few ERP exercises?”

    _Well, I don’t actually have a choice, do I?_ “Sure,” I say, with a small smile.

   “I’m going to ask you to do something, then I want you to walk me through how you feel,” she says. That sounds perfectly awful. “Could you nod four times for me?”

   I wish Thomas was here. But he’s not, so after I nod four times, I try to imagine the pride on his face. “I used to feel like the world was going to end if I didn’t complete my tens.”

   “How do you feel now?” she asks.

    _Not great._ “I get mildly uncomfortable sometimes. Right now, I feel okay.” She’s just looking at me. Can she stop looking at me?

   “Are you okay to walk?” Dr. Ximena asks.

   Jumping from nodding to walking? “I am.”

   “Could you walk around the room, tell me what you’re feeling, then come back and sit down when I say?” she asks.

   I stand up, because there’s no point in stalling. _I’m taking control._ I hear Thomas and Frypan’s voices in my head, and try to keep nothing but the encouragement from sticking. So when I start walking around, the numbers and the positive thoughts clash together, making it hard to single something out to tell Dr. Ximena.

   Then, Chuck pops into mind. _How are you well enough?_ I’m a liar. That’s all I am. I’ve tried, I’ve really tried, but all I’m doing right now is faking my way through. I _am_ escaping again. Even if it’s for a good reason. But can I even do it?

   My face gets warm, and I try to get it to stop without it being obvious. _Just talk._ “I’m feeling alright,” is all I can muster. _Liar._

   “What do you think will happen if you don’t stop at ten?” Dr. Ximena asks.

   “I thought I’d be punished somehow,” I say. Why does she want to remind me?

   “Do you feel like you’re in danger?” she asks.

    _Yes._ “No. I feel…” I trail off. Then, my sensible side takes over. The Normals and everyone else in TIMI are in real danger. This is up to _me._ For their sake, I keep lying. “I feel shame that I used to feel that way. It’s not logical.”

   “It’s not logical, but do you feel that way?” she asks.

   What number am I on? How long have I been walking? Why is she asking this _again?_

   “I _said no_ ,” I say sharply, before I can filter my words. It doesn’t even hit me how rudely that came out for a moment. My chest constricts. _I’m failing._ “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I’m—”

   “You can come sit now, Newton. That’s good,” Dr. Ximena says.

   That was it. I ruined it. My one chance, and it’s over. I stop in my tracks, then walk back over to my wheelchair feeling like a bubble burst in me. _Stay cool. Stay collected._

   “I’m sorry,” I say, once I sit down. I can’t read her expression.

   “Why do you think they don’t want you to leave?” Dr. Ximena asks.

   I can’t tell her the real reason. “I don’t think they believe me when I say I don’t need to be here anymore.”

   She appears to consider this. “Let’s do the medical portion,” she says.

   I take a shaky breath. Maybe I haven’t messed it up yet.

   We discuss my medication, then my ankle. She checks my vitals, and says everything seems normal. I tell her I’ve been eating everything they give me, and she tells me I’ve lost weight since getting here, according to my files. The only other fault she finds is that I apparently look tired. I think I’ve passed the medical exam, but I still can’t tell how she’s feeling about the psychological part of it.

   “Alright, I just want to discuss one more thing,” Dr. Ximena says. I raise my eyebrows. “Do you really feel you’re not a danger to yourself or anyone around you? Do you feel you can truly function outside here in the ways you couldn’t before? Because it’s not your job to convince everyone. It’s your job to recover.”

   Right now, it _is_ my job to convince everyone. I understand what she means, but she has no idea what’s on the line here. “I’m definitely not a danger to myself or anyone else, and I’m not going to let OCD ruin my life like it did before. I know I can function correctly outside of here, and I’m ready to lead a healthy life going forward.”

   If she doesn’t believe me, it doesn’t show. She nods once, then gives me a polite smile. “Are you ready to go back in there?”

   “Yes, ma’am,” I say, nodding back and hoping she noticed the gesture.

   She stands up, and I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. The hardest part on me is over. There’s nothing I can do now, and for some odd reason, that’s comforting. I did what I could do, so now it’s on them to figure out if I’m well enough. The choice to leave isn’t mine.

   When I’m back with my parents, I can tell my mother wants to ask me how it went, but instead, she just puts a hand on my arm.

   The judge asks Dr. Ximena to come to the front of the room, and while she goes up, I watch Ava Paige and Janson. Dr. Paige looks stone cold and professional as usual, but Janson looks… uncomfortable, maybe? He leans towards Ava Paige and says something quietly, and she only looks at him in response.

   I’m wondering what he said when something Dr. Ximena says pulls me back to the moment. “The patient does not seem to be a danger to himself or others, and passed the medical examination.”

   I look at my mother and she smiles. That must be a good thing, but does it mean I can go? When Dr. Ximena goes back to her seat, I go to ask my mom that exact question, but the judge speaks before I get the chance, asking someone else to come up.

   The person turns out to be TIMI’s resident lawyer, and he calls Dr. Janson up to ask him questions.

   It’s out of my hands now, right? So, I’m only half listening as Janson explains that he believes I’m faking my recovery, and that the accident was on purpose. The odd thing is that I barely get annoyed. I picture Thomas scoffing at him and shouting things to throw him off, and it helps.

   Ava goes up next, and she’s harder to ignore, since she’s got the most to call me out on. They start by her saying some of the same things Janson said. She says I’ve had recent episodes that the nurses can attest to.

   Then, the inevitable.

   “Now, am I correct in saying that the patient fled the facility fairly recently without being discharged?” the lawyer asks. My heart sinks.

   Dr. Paige looks at Janson, and her expression changes. My heart starts skipping beats as I look between them. Why isn’t she answering?

   “Yes,” she says finally. I feel sick. Then, for some reason, she keeps going and with every word, time gets slower and the room closes in around me more and more. “But recently, another patient, Thomas Green, confessed that he forced Newton into leaving with him. He was under threat, so he isn’t at fault for it.”

   The lawyer frowns. I get dizzy, trying to process her words.

   “What?”

   Eyes turn to me, and only then do I realize that the voice was my own.

   “Newt,” my mother says, with warning in her voice.

   That was wrong. What she said was wrong.

   “The other patient confessed this?” the lawyer asks.

   “Yes, he asked us to record the confession and he’s willing to testify if need be, but that is no longer part of my case,” Dr. Paige says.

   “No,” I mumble before I can stop myself, and a lot louder than intended.

   “What’re you doing?” my mother asks quietly.

   I shake my head, turning to her.

   “May my client have a brief recess to use the bathroom, please?” our lawyer asks.

   My eyes trail back to Dr. Paige, and I give her a glare worse than any other Thomas has given her before. Anxiety builds up in my chest as the judge says something I don’t listen to. Why is she lying? Why would she say something like that?

   As they wheel me out of the room, my mind races and I feel tears welling up in my eyes.

   “What are you doing? Why are you acting like this? That just ruined her whole case against you, why are you denying it?” my mother asks, once we’re out of the stupid room.

   “Why did she say that?” I ask, my voice strained. “She’s lying. It’s a lie. Why would she—”

   “She can’t use the evidence anymore. This is a good thing,” our lawyer says, but I don’t want to hear it.

   “You need to pull it together, Newt. Now,” my mom says.

   The anger turns into sadness so quickly that I feel the icy chill spread through my body like I’m a cartoon character. A tear falls, and I wipe it quickly. I don’t want to think about this right now, I _can’t_ think about this right now.

   “She’s wrong,” I say.

   “It doesn’t matter. It’s helping you get out, so you need to let this happen,” my mother says.

   I want to see Thomas. More than anything, I want him next to me right now telling me that this is okay. That she’s lying for some reason to help me. Anything at all.

   “Can you be good if we go back in?” our lawyer asks, like I’m a child misbehaving in class.

   My mother pulls out a tissue from her purse and hands it to me. I don’t want it. I want Thomas, I want this ridiculous trial to be over, and I want Dr. Paige to explain why she said that without telling me the one answer I don’t want to hear.

   “Can you?” Mom asks.

   I don’t want to go back in. Seeing her face again is the last thing in the world I want to do. But I can’t stay out here forever. “Fine,” I say.

   I’m numb as I’m brought back in. Everyone is staring at me. I feel it, but I don’t care. I only care about Thomas.

   Our lawyer apologizes, and says that I’m fine. They proceed.

   I’m not paying attention to the rest of the trial. Nobody asks me anything, because my opinions and thoughts are valued the least in here. I don’t cry anymore. Instead, I let the minutes tick by. I let them say whatever they want about me.

   Thomas telling me not to worry about him when I’m gone. Thomas staying after group to talk to Dr. Paige. Thomas insisting he’ll never be able to leave. Thomas saying they won’t bring up our escape. Thomas. Thomas. Thomas. That’s all that flashes through my mind, a sequence of things that I should never have missed but did. But I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it.

   After everyone is done making their cases, we get a few minutes to take a break while things are being discussed. My father takes me to the bathroom, and both of us are silent on the way there. I have nothing to say, and he doesn’t care either way.

   On the way back to the room, I get a bad lightheaded feeling, and put my hand on my forehead, breathing deeply.

   “What’s wrong?” my dad asks.

   “Do you care?” I ask in a small voice, not opening my eyes.

   He stops pushing me, and it makes the feeling worse. “What’re you on about now?”

   I regret opening my mouth at all. “Forget it,” I say.

   “I’m not going to forget it,” my dad says sternly.

   I’m not in the mood for this. “Can we just go back to the room?” I ask.

   “Why do you always get snippy with me?” he asks.

   “You really want to do this now?” I ask, finally opening my eyes and looking up at him.

   He eyes me, and my vision gets blurry for a moment. “You get mad at me over everything, what did I do? Is this about the divorce?” he asks. Somehow, he sounds annoyed with me.

   My eyes burn. “This isn’t my fault,” I say, without raising my voice. I deliver the rest of my words with a tone so cold it almost surprises me. “You started hating me, not the other way around. I’m sorry I ruined your marriage, and I’m sorry I’m not the normal son you wanted me to be. Now can we please go back before we’re late?”

   He just looks at me for a moment, and I’m shocked I got through that without crying out of frustration. But a part of me is glad I got to say it finally. The same twisted part that’s happy to be proven right as he doesn’t deny my words.

   “Oh here you are, we’re starting up again,” I hear from in front of me. I turn to see our lawyer waving us back.

   My father starts pushing me again. “This isn’t over,” he says, as we near the room. I harden my jaw. _Great._

   When we get back in, I’m so emotionally drained that my anxiety feels deadly. As to not disappoint my mother, I try to hide it. But I don’t know how much longer I can stand this.

   The judge asks for the attention of everyone in the room, but he doesn’t get mine. At this point, they could tell me anything. But as much as I want to get out of here, every moment brings me closer to facing the inevitable truths of either outcome.

   Someone starts speaking, but I’m looking at Dr. Paige. She doesn’t look happy. I get hit with another wave of dizziness and it occurs to me that I haven’t eaten today. When I look at the clock, I see that by now, the Normals must be about to go to their class. Is Chuck alright?

   I’m so lost in thought that the words are meaningless at first. But when I backtrack in my mind, I know I managed to hear them correctly. If I didn’t trust my mind, then I could read the answer on Ava’s face and in the tone of my mother’s voice from beside me. No, I didn’t make a mistake here. Yet the words don’t have nearly as much of an impact on me as I thought they would.

   “The patient does not require further hospitalization, and must be discharged to the care of his parents after discussing further outpatient treatment.”


	47. forty seven

I have to leave. Leave Thomas. Leave Chuck. I have to say goodbye and face everything ahead of me alone. Recovery, my parents’ divorce, trying to expose TIMI; it’ll all be on me to handle. Can I do that? Is all of that even possible?

   Dr. Paige and Dr. Janson are supposed to meet us in here any moment. We’re back in my building, and we’re in Ava’s office. Being in here with my parents makes it all seem a lot smaller. They have no clue what’s gone down here, so they probably don’t think much of the place. To them, it’s just an institution that their son doesn’t belong in anymore. But I’ll always see it as a lot more than that.

   The Normals are in their class now, so we didn’t run into anyone on the way in. That’s probably a good thing, though. If I’d seen Thomas…

   I hear Ava Paige and Janson enter the room from behind me, but I don’t turn my head to look at them. This is about to be wildly uncomfortable, but it’s nothing compared to what’s coming.

   They both sit down; Ava in her chair behind her desk, and Janson awkwardly sitting in a smaller chair to the side of her.

   “We have to discuss Newton’s outpatient treatment plan,” Janson starts.

   “So he’ll just be seeing a therapist weekly, right?” my mother says.

   “You can have him continue coming here for therapy and possibly a group—”

   “No,” my mom cuts him off. I look at her, then at Janson.

   “I could keep coming to therapy here?” I ask.

   “We’re not interested in doing that, we’ve found a local therapist for him,” Mom says.

   So am I just not getting any say at _all_ with this whole thing? She never told me that, and I didn’t know coming here was even an option. Coming here would mean possibly seeing Thomas every week. “But Mom—”

   “Newt, please,” she says.

   “Alright, well, we just have to go over a few other things then,” Janson says.

   As they discuss my medication, I feel anger building in my chest. Dr. Paige doesn’t jump in often, and it makes me wonder why she’s even here. The only consolation in this situation is the fact that she lost. But the rest of the situation frustrates me so much that even that isn’t helping.

   I don’t speak much either until something comes up that I _refuse_ to let be decided for me.

   “Could we take him now?” my father—surprisingly enough—asks.

   “No,” I say, flying forward in my seat and shaking my head. Ava Paige raises her eyebrows. “I-I need to get my stuff together and pack,” I add.

   “You’re going to make us come all the way back tomorrow?” Dad asks.

   I’m fed up. With him, with Ava Paige, with being helpless, with _everything._ I’m not even sure what’s about to come out of my mouth when my mother interjects.

   “That’s fine, sweetie,” she says. I look at her, and the relief that floods through me at the one victory is small, but appreciated.

   “Thank you,” I say, sitting back in my chair.

   Tomorrow it is.

   They continue talking until finally they feel they’ve made a good enough plan for me without any of my input, and my parents tell me they’ll be back for me tomorrow after lunch. Just like when Frypan left.

   Mom brings me back to my room, and I check the clock in the hallway to see that it’s only nine. The Normals won’t be out until almost ten.

   She stops my chair when we get into the room, and I stand up slowly, trying not to show my shakiness. Lunch isn’t until noon, but I don’t know if I could stomach anything right now anyway.

   “You don’t seem very happy to be leaving,” Mom says.

   I don’t answer until I’m sat on my bed. I’m on four, but I don’t let her know that. “It’s complicated,” I say weakly.

   “How? This place isn’t good for you, Newt. You don’t belong here, and I’m sorry I sent you in the first place,” she says. She sounds emotional. “I’m so sorry.”

   “You shouldn’t be sorry,” I say. “I needed it. I’m better now, aren’t I?” It had almost nothing to do with Janson, but it is true.

   “Either way, you should be home now,” Mom says.

   I look across the room at Chuck’s unmade bed. “I know,” I say. It’s not her fault she doesn’t know why this is so hard for me.

   “Please talk to me,” Mom says after a moment, stepping closer to me. This really isn’t the time.

   “Mom,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I’m tired; _really_ tired. So can we do this tomorrow?”

   She’s disappointed. I wish I could say I’m used to disappointing her, but I don’t think that’ll ever happen.

   “Alright,” she says. She looks behind her as if she’s expecting someone to be there. “Your father is bringing the car around, so I should go. Please call if you need me, okay?”

   “I will,” I say. I probably won’t.

   “I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Mom says. She looks like she goes to step closer, but decides against it.

   “Love you,” I say, forcing the words out of my exhaust ridden body.

   She walks out, and I lie down, feeling defeated. Every bone and muscle in my body aches, and I don’t want to be conscious. I don’t want to feel this anymore. I don’t want to face the rest of today, or tomorrow. The only things I _do_ want are the things I can’t have.

   One more glance at the time, and then I sleep.

  
  
  


“Newt,” I hear. When I recognize the voice, I want to keep my eyes closed. “Newt?”

   I have to face him eventually. My eyes reluctantly peel open, and I attempt to prop myself up on my elbows, but fail miserably. “Sorry,” I say, my voice barely coming out.

   Chuck just stares at me as I sit up. “Medication time,” he says.

   I look at the time. It’s ten. A jolt of anxiety helps wake me up quicker. I go to thank Chuck for waking me, but he turns and just walks to my chair. He’s still mad at me.

   As I get up, my count continues without me wanting it to. Chuck isn’t looking at me. As much as I hate that he’s upset, if hating me is the only way Chuck can get through this, I’ll let him.

   Before I sit down, I look down at Chuck. He hasn’t asked, but he’ll have to know eventually. “Do you want to know how the trial went?” I ask hesitantly.

   He still doesn’t look up at me. “Not really,” he says. I physically feel my heart hurt. He rocks back and forth a little on his heels before he speaks again. “Just tell me.”

   I wish he knew just how much I hate saying this. How much I hate _all_ of this. “They decided I’m well enough to go,” I say.

   Chuck is still for a moment. Then, he nods. His expression hasn’t changed much. Seconds go by without either of us speaking, and I wish I could just hug the kid and cry with him about how unfair life is. But we just stay still.

   Eventually, he finally meets my eyes. “Are you gonna get in or not?” Chuck asks, trying and failing to sound tough. It reminds me of Thomas. Chuck just hasn’t learned how to pull it off yet, and I wish he never would.

   I sit down, and then I notice my headache. It’s a pressure right behind my eyes that makes the world zoom in and out of focus. I’m not supposed to take my medication on an empty stomach, but I guess I have no choice.

   He starts pushing me, and it’s so like him to do this no matter how mad he is. I love him even more for it. I’m going to keep my vow. I have to.

   We go out to the line, and I don’t see any of the Normals in front of us. Not that I’m keen on talking about anything. I just stare down at my lap, and Chuck stays wordless behind me until we get to the little window. I stand up, and all I can think about is that this is coming to an end. After tomorrow, I won’t be doing this anymore.

   When I finish taking my medication, I sit back down, and Chuck stands next to me to take his. I watch him. He looks so unlike himself, and if it wasn’t so horrible, I might be touched that I mean this much to him.

   After he’s done, he starts to wheel me away, and I’m not entirely sure where he’s even taking me. I’m not going to ask, though. It looks like he’s headed to the rec room, and that terrifies me. Who’s in there? Is Chuck going to tell everyone?

   Right before we get there, I hear a voice that makes my stomach drop.

   “Chuck, hey, could I take over?”

   I hear Chuck step away and watch him pass in front of me, walking into the rec room. My blood has run cold.

   Already, I know we’re going to my room. On the way there, my eyes start to tear up and I feel my hands shake. The more I think about it, the worse it gets. I’m angry— _furious_ —at him. And he’s going to know it.

   We get into the room, and he stops my chair. I take one deep breath as he walks around, and I feel a tear fall. But I don’t care. I stand up, pushing my chair back as I do so.

   He’s in front of me now. As I look at him, the pain gets worse. He searches my face. I’m not going to let my crying get in the way of what I want to say. I speak, and it comes out broken, but madder than I’ve ever heard myself.

    _“What did you do?”_ I ask him.

   “Did they let you go?” Thomas asks, like he didn’t even hear what I said.

   “Answer me. Right now,” I say, stepping close to him. I don’t want his answer. Not the one I’m afraid of.

   “So they did?” Thomas asks.

   “Thomas,” I say warningly, fire in my eyes.

   He looks at me for a few seconds. I don’t want him to speak. “I’ll only tell you if you tell me if it was worth it or not,” he finally says.

   I stumble back from him. He looks at me expectantly. Does he not realize what he’s done? How destroyed I am because of it? How destroyed _he_ could be? “How would this ever be worth it?”

   “Are they letting you leave?” Thomas asks again.

   He won’t stop until I answer. I can’t look at him while I speak. “Yes.”

   When I meet his eyes, Thomas looks happy. In spite of everything, he seems content. Perfectly fine. “Then it was worth it,” he says.

   “What did you tell her?” I ask. “What lies did you tell her?”

   “I confessed,” Thomas says, as if it’s no big deal.

   “ _Confessed?_ It was my choice, Thomas. _My choice,_ ” I say loudly. Thomas looks out the door, but I don’t care if anyone hears.

   “She doesn’t need to know that,” Thomas says, keeping his voice low.

   “So you told her what? You kidnapped me?” I ask. “Why would she believe that? She read my journal.”

   “She had her reasons. Plus, it’s true that your life was threatened, isn’t it?” Thomas asks. I’m stunned. “It doesn’t matter now. It only matters that you’re out.”

   “How doesn’t it matter? Do you know how bad this is for you?” I ask. He doesn’t care. No matter what I say, he doesn’t care.

   Thomas steps forward, and I almost flinch away, but I let him take my hands in his, his sad smile hurting me to my core. He’s an expert at the look by now. “I’m sorry. I am,” Thomas starts. “But I don’t regret it, and I’d do it a thousand more times given the chance. I knew what I was doing, Newt.”

   My face is a horrible mess of trying to look angry while I cry, shaking my head. “But why?” I ask quietly. “Why would you do that?”

   “Don’t you get it by now?” Thomas asks. I give him a defeated shrug, holding back a sob. His expression doesn’t fade, but his eyes change as he looks at the tears flowing down my face. “Do you remember the shark toy I won you?”

   This doesn’t help. I grip onto his hands tighter. That day feels like ages ago. I turn and look behind me at my open drawer, because I know for a fact the plush shark is in there. Thomas looks at where I turned to and his smile widens.

   “Did I ever tell you why I chose that one?” he asks.

   “What does that have to do with anything?” I ask. He doesn’t respond, just looking at me and waiting. “No. You didn’t.”

   “The one thing I know about sharks is that they always have to keep moving to stay alive,” Thomas starts. I furrow my eyebrows at him. “At first I thought it was appropriate because you always needed to do your tens to function. But it means something else now. Now, it means that if you don’t keep going—getting out of here, recovering, actually getting on with your life—then you’ll be stuck like this forever. You have to leave. I know you know I’m right.”

   I just stare at him. How am I supposed to let go of this? This beautiful boy that won me the shark toy and gave me my life back? That’s the problem. I know he’s right. But leaving him here with the knowledge that he basically sold himself so that I could get out is the worst thing I will ever have to do.

   “What about you?” I ask.

   “I wasn’t getting out of here anyway. Besides, I _did_ all of those things. I might as well not bring you down with me. I’m happy with what I did, Newt. It’s okay. Really,” Thomas says.

   “I can’t believe you,” I say, choking on my words.

   “You’re welcome,” Thomas says. He takes one of his hands from mine brings his thumb up to my face, wiping a tear away. Just like the day of Winston’s memorial. Except this time, he leans forward and softly kisses me on the cheek, making my eyes flutter shut for a moment. My chest aches so bad that I’m convinced part of my heart was ripped from it. When he pulls back, I open my eyes, and he squeezes my hand. “Are you going to spend the rest of your time here hating me?”

   I reluctantly shake my head, making him look relieved, although I don’t believe he thought for a second that I could ever hate him. “I leave tomorrow,” I say, after a moment.

   “So we have tonight, then?” Thomas asks.

   It’s so final. Way too final. “We do,” I say.

   Thomas smiles. “Great.”

  
  
  


When we get into the rec room, everyone’s already heard from Chuck that I’m leaving. I’m met with a few congratulations, but the overall vibe is just strange. Nothing like when Fry left. He was happy to go, and everyone witnessed his recovery and was excited for him. For me, I’m miserable, I’m only partially recovered, Chuck is mad, and everyone is uncomfortable.

   We all sit down, and I’m next to Thomas with no intention of leaving his side. I keep looking over at Chuck—who’s seated as far as he can be—and Thomas must catch on because he turns to look at him too before speaking to me lowly. “He’ll be fine. He’s just upset that he’s losing you,” he says.

   “It kills me to see him like that,” I say. “He told me I’m not ready to go yet. I still think he’s right.”

   “Hey,” Thomas says, shaking his head. “He didn’t mean that. You proved yourself. He’s just having a hard time, he’ll get over it.”

   I nod, but it still doesn’t help. “I hope so,” I say.

   “So, Newt,” Minho says, sitting in the chair across from me. “You and Fry gonna hang out and send us pictures?”

   I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “I’ll definitely reach out to Frypan,” I say. Minho nods. I want to say that someday soon we can _all_ hang out together, but I know how meaningless that feels to hear.

   “Are you going with him?” Minho asks Thomas with a smirk.

   Ouch. Thomas rolls his eyes, but my face drops. “You wish,” Thomas says.

   Minho laughs, then turns back to me. “Dude, you’re gonna have the best time not having to wake up early,” he says.

   “I’ve got school, actually,” I say. That reminds me of how far behind I am by now, and it makes my dread grow even worse.

   “Weekends exist, you know. Appreciate it. And not having to see Rat Man’s ugly face all the time,” Minho says.

   I know I should be more grateful for this. Minho would probably do anything to be where I am. “I will,” I say, mustering a small smile that hurts my face. My eyes are sore from crying, and making any expression feels forced. If it wasn’t taking away from my last full day with Thomas, I’d probably take another nap.

   Minho looks between Thomas and I. “You’re allowed to visit, I think,” he says. “Just so you know.”

   He obviously knows who I’m going to want to see. Before I can respond, he turns away.

   “Can you promise me something, Newt?” Thomas asks. I tilt my head. “Don’t spend a lot of time thinking about this place. Or…” he trails off.

   “You?” I guess. Thomas nods. “I appreciate it, but my motivation for leaving and fixing myself is to help you and everyone else.”

   “Think about yourself, too,” Thomas says.

   “Just like you were thinking about yourself when you said all that stuff to Ava?” I ask. Thomas is quiet. “I want a good normal life. I do. But I want one for you too, okay? And don’t tell me it won’t happen, because I will not accept that.”

   Does he not realize that it’d be impossible to not be thinking about him all day every day? After everything we’ve been through?

   “Fine,” Thomas says.

   Thomas has been the only one in my corner, and if he thinks I’m forgetting about that now when I need it the most, he’s got another thing coming.

  
  
  


Lunch is a lot of Thomas and I speaking about regular things. Neither of us say why we stick to light topics, but I know it’s to keep me from freaking out again. I’m not sure how _he’s_ handling it, because all I know is that he’s glad I’m getting out. He’s told me he doesn’t want to lose me, but that’s all he’s said.

   I don’t take my eyes off of him for more than a few seconds at a time. It’s like I’m trying to take in every little part of him. The slope of his nose, the deep color of his eyes, the little moles scattered on the side of his face, his tousled brown hair, the way he looks when something manages to make him truly happy. I want all of it locked in my brain, because knowing I won’t be able to just turn around and see him whenever I want to is way too harsh of a reality for me.

   When it’s time for group, we’re talking about Thomas’ opinions on various foods when we get to the door. He stops.

   “Is this gonna be weird?” Thomas asks.

   “Probably,” I say.

   “Do you wanna go in?” Thomas asks.

   “I don’t think I have a choice,” I say. Thomas pushes me in, and sure enough, Ava Paige is sitting at the front of the room. Her legs are crossed and she surveys the room with cold eyes. She looks scarier than usual now.

   We go over to our usual spot, and I get up, Thomas moving my chair to the side for me. I get a bad feeling, and when I turn to look at Dr. Paige it confirms my suspicions that she’s staring at me. So I sit down, not showing any signs of my tens. I feel like I’m struggling to keep my head above water, and every time I break my tens today, it’s like someone’s pushing my head below the surface.

   When Thomas sits beside me, I’m desperate to face him. Since everyone’s still getting settled, he can talk, leaning forward. “She won’t want you to talk today,” he says.

   I pray he’s right, and I hope the same thing applies to tomorrow. I’ve got nothing to say to her.

  
  
  


Turns out, Ava Paige isn’t thrilled with me right now, because she didn’t even ask if I wanted to share when it got to me. But now, at dinner, I’m thinking of a thousand questions I have for her.

   “I hope Gally is okay,” I say, staring off at the spot he would usually sit. That’s currently the biggest issue. What is that pill? What’s happening to Gally?

   “Me too,” Thomas says. I’m proud of him for his progress when it comes to mentions of Gally. No matter what’s happened between them, what TIMI is doing to him is horrible on every level.

   “The sooner I can expose them the better,” I say. “I just have to figure out how.”

   “We’ll talk about that after dinner,” Thomas says, eyeing one of the nurses.

   “Last dinner with us, Newt,” Aris says now, turning to me. “Does that feel weird?”

    _Thanks for the reminder._ “Yeah, it does,” I say.

   “How much will you miss the food?” Zart asks, with a snort.

   “Not much,” I say. Sadly, the food is the least of my concerns.

   “What about Thomas?”

   My stomach flips when Chuck mumbles the words. I stare down at the table, because I know my face will betray me if I have to look up. My leg starts shaking and I can’t help that I pause at ten. Nobody’s saying anything.

   “Chuck,” Thomas says softly.

   “What?” Chuck asks.

   “I’m going to miss all of you a lot,” I say. I look up at Chuck. “Hate me if you have to. But just know that leaving you is the last thing I want to do.”

   He opens his mouth, then closes it. Then, he picks up his fork and continues eating. I, on the other hand, have completely lost any appetite I may have had.

  
  
  


I’m in Thomas’ room, because Chuck is in our room, and I don’t think he wants to be around me right now. Also, Minho is hanging out with Jeff and Zart, so we can talk about TIMI and WCKD freely without anyone hearing us.

   “So,” Thomas says, getting settled. He’s sitting criss crossed up against his headboard, and I’m facing him, sitting halfly criss crossed because of my cast, my foot up against Thomas’ leg.

   “So,” I say.

   “If you’re going to try to take down TIMI, you’ll probably have to start with WCKD. Find out everything you can about them. Then, you’ll want to talk to Mrs. Flores, so I’ll give you her contact information. If you call me, I can help,” Thomas says.

   “Alright,” I say, trying to process it. I’ll be able to call Thomas. Hear his voice. That should help, right?

   “You sure you want to do this?” Thomas asks.

   “Tommy, don’t even bother asking that,” I say seriously.

   He nods. “We’ll need evidence, and to make sure Mrs. Flores is on board. I can’t get into Ava Paige’s office without Vince…” Thomas trails off, his face dropping a bit.

   “We’ll do it without him. Don’t worry,” I say, knowing well that I’m just as unsure as he is, if not more.

   “With you on the outside and me on the inside, we’ll figure something out,” Thomas says, sounding about as convincing as I did.

   I want to tell Thomas I can’t wait to get him out of here, but I know that would be selfish of me incase our plans don’t work. The last thing I want is to upset him, but our plans _have_ to work. If I have to personally break everyone out of here myself, I will.

   “Watch out for yourself, okay?” I say. After seeing what they’ve done to Gally against his will, I’m terrified to even fathom what they’d do to Thomas if they find out everything he knows.

   “I always do,” Thomas says. _Not true,_ I want to say. The stunt he pulled the other day was the absolute opposite of watching out for himself.

   “Always check your pills, be careful if you try to sneak around, and don’t let them know everything,” I say.

   “I’ll be fine. I’ve lasted this long, right?” Thomas asks. I’m not sure if he means it to be funny, but I certainly can’t find the humor in it.

   “Just…” I say, sighing and shaking my head. “Please don’t give up on yourself. If you do, there’s no way this’ll ever work. The goal is to get TIMI shut down, yes, but also to get you out. To find people that can actually help you. Hold onto that.”

   Thomas doesn’t meet my eyes. He doesn’t look used to hearing this kind of thing, but he needs to. I wish he’d care about himself as much as he cares about the rest of us.

   “I want to see my sister again,” Thomas says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Before I met you, she was the only thing keeping me going. I don’t know if she’d ever want to speak to me again, but I keep thinking that—”

   Thomas cuts himself off, and he looks like he’s in physical pain as he takes a few labored breaths. His gaze falls on the corner of the room, and then he abruptly closes his eyes.

   “It’s okay, Tommy,” I say, instinctively reaching out to rest my hand on his shoulder. Thomas leans into it. I have no clue what he’s going through right now. He could be seeing or hearing anything, he’s still never shared much with me about it. But the thing I’ve noticed is that any time his family comes up, it triggers something in him.

   “If I can find a way to get myself stable, maybe I could come back to her. Be the big brother she should have,” Thomas says shakily.

   “I know she’d want that too,” I say carefully, hoping the assumption won’t set him off.

   “She was scared of me, Newt,” Thomas says. His voice does something strange that I recognize from the past; a sort of detached tone. “I never would have hurt her. I wasn’t trying to, I barely even noticed her there, I swear it.”

   “I believe you,” I say. When Thomas doesn’t speak for a few moments, a question nags at me. “Why haven’t you told Janson that?”

   “Do you think _he’d_ really believe it?” Thomas asks. He makes a good point, but it’s not fair. Janson should believe Thomas if he says he didn’t want to hurt Brenda, just like he should have believed me when I told him I didn’t try to get hit by the car. We’re already here, why would we make those things up?

   “Brenda will believe you. You’ve grown a lot since then already, right? You’ve learned more?” I ask.

   “I’ve gotten better at ignoring things, but I don’t know if I trust myself. Even thinking about it just—it’s hard. Hard to talk about them. Even with these stupid antipsychotics,” Thomas says.

   “You don’t have to,” I say. I’ve learned not to force Thomas to talk about anything.

   “I never do. That might be the problem,” Thomas says, looking up at me.

   I manage a small smile. “See? All that therapizing you do for us, try to do a bit of that for yourself. You’re the smartest person I know, and you always say you could do Janson’s job, right? Focus on yourself,” I say.

   Thomas seems to consider my words. “It won’t help with some of my symptoms, but I guess I can. Maybe I can use Janson to just tell this stuff to, so he can keep track of it all for me. I don’t expect him to actually help.”

   “Please,” I say. I’d feel a little better knowing Thomas was at least focusing on himself while I’m not here and he still is.

   “I’m, uh,” Thomas says, running a hand through his hair. He blinks slowly. “I want to get out for—um, to see her.”

   “I know,” I say. It horrible when his words sound like they hurt to string together, like I can see him trying to make sense of them in his head.

   “And for you, too,” Thomas says. He huffs, frustratedly. “To see you.”

   My heart aches. “You’re going to. I promise. This isn’t normal, Tommy. I don’t know much, but I do know that you’re not supposed to be in here this long. It’s not right.”

   “If I tried to leave and they fought me on it, they’d win,” Thomas says.

   “Which is why we’re going to show the world what TIMI is doing,” I say. Thomas seems to focus on me, his eyes glued to mine. Then, he scoots over on his bed, so he’s taking up only the right side, making my hand fall to the blanket.

   “C’mere,” Thomas says, patting the bed next to him. “If you want to,” he adds.

   I want to _too_ badly. It only takes me a few moments to settle in beside him, and Thomas surprises me by shifting in a way that makes him half lying down, his head upright against the headboard. I follow suit, and Thomas takes me into his arms. No part of me is going to complain about that. It’s surprisingly natural by now.

   I almost can’t believe I was just yelling at him ten hours ago. But that wasn’t out of hatred. It was out of fear. I don’t want to be mad at him now, but I stand by that what he did was stupid and he never should have said it. He really is an idiot. But I can’t help but think I’d do the same thing if I was in his place.

   My arm wraps around Thomas. It’s crazy to think of how far we’ve come from when I first got here. From avoiding the truth, to denying it, and now knowing both of those things were pointless. I hate myself now for wasting so much time I could have spent like this, but I know I couldn’t rush it. At least that’s what Thomas would tell me. I still have a part of me that tells me I’m wrong, but I know how I feel now.

   “I have to pack,” I say suddenly, remembering the annoying chore.

   “You can pack in the morning, right?” Thomas asks. I almost smile. He doesn’t want me to leave.

   “I can,” I say. I’m dreading it.

   “I’ll help,” Thomas says.

   I want to just forget the world and lay here without thinking about our conditions, or the future, or even where we are. I’ve never been good with change or goodbyes. This will be the worst yet. Anything I went through with Alby doesn’t even compare.

   When I look up at Thomas, he looks down at me. He’s sad, but he’s trying to hide it. Thomas can’t fool me, though. I know him too well by now. He carries his emotions in his eyes—and I’ve seen all of them. The light is so dim it’s hard to imagine it ever wasn’t. But I’ve been lucky enough to see it for myself.

   “We should go back to that amusement park sometime,” I say softly.

   Thomas smiles, and I long for him to mean it. “You liked it?”

   “I loved it,” I say. But it wasn’t necessarily the park itself that made it so fun.

   “We should, then,” Thomas says. I wish it didn’t feel so much like a pipe dream. I think he feels that way, too.

   I’m sleepy, but I don’t want to be. I put my head on Thomas, feeling tears well up in my eyes. “Where else?” I ask. I’m tired of crying.

   Thomas takes a moment to answer, and I fear I’ve crossed some kind of line. But eventually, he speaks. “We could go to the beach,” he says.

   “I get sunburnt easily,” I say, smiling weakly.

   “So you put on sunscreen,” Thomas says. I can hear a smile in his voice. “What about the movies?”

   “Do you like movie theaters?” I ask.

   “Sometimes. Maybe we could see a comedy or something,” Thomas says.

   “That’d be nice,” I say.

   “I’d like to fly, too. We could go to England.” Thomas’ hand trails up and down my shoulder.

   “I could show you where I used to live,” I suggest.

   “Also the Eiffel Tower,” Thomas says.

   “Tommy, that’s France.” It’s nice to laugh.

   “See? This is why you have to take me,” Thomas says.

   “Alright, then. We’ll go to both,” I say.

   “How about the mall?” Thomas asks. “Stores, food court, all of that. But you have to buy me a churro.”

   “Gladly,” I say, taking my hand from around him quickly to wipe a tear away before putting it back across his stomach. He’s warm, but thin in a way he shouldn’t be. Either way, hugging him is still comfortable because it’s _him._ Maybe soon he’ll be better. Healthier.

   “Maybe we can go to school together. I’d go for psychology, and you for… english?” Thomas asks.

   I haven’t given college as much thought as I should have. “Probably. We could share a dorm.”

   “Even after spending time in my room? That’s really flattering.”

   “I’d keep it tidy.” I yawn, and Thomas hums.

   “Good luck with that. You’d hate me as a roommate.”

   “I could never,” I say truthfully, letting my eyes close.

   “We could go to the park, too. A nice one. We’re not too old for playgrounds, right?” Thomas asks.

   We keep going back and forth, and miraculously, it takes my mind off of everything. The longer we talk, the calmer I get, until eventually I drift off in Thomas’ arms, my head filled with plans and memories of roller coasters.


	48. forty eight

_Thomas pulls me closer, adjusting the blanket across our laps._

_“Where’d you go?” he asks._

_I frown up at him. “What d’ya mean?”_

_“You left,” he says._

_I pause the TV, sitting up more on the couch. This is my couch, right? Thomas looks at me expectantly. Something is wrong. “No, I didn’t. What’re you talking about?”_

_“It’s alright,” Thomas says, smiling now. “You had to, it’s okay.”_

_“Had to what?” I ask._

_Thomas shakes his head. “Nothing. Can you go grab us something to drink?”_

_I eye him carefully, then get up, walking to the kitchen. But it’s different. No, this is TIMI’s cafeteria. I walk back, and Thomas is sitting in a chair this time. The rec room. Are we back?_

_“You’re doing great,” Thomas says._

_I want to ask with what, then I remember. My tens. I look down, and something feels missing—my cast. When I try to ask Thomas where it is, he’s no longer there._

_“Tommy?” I ask. I try to walk forward, but I’m frozen. Panic starts to fill me. Why can’t I move? Did I do something wrong?_

_I need Thomas. Where is he?_ Where is he?

   I take a deep breath as my eyes flutter open. It’s dark, so taking survey of where I am is nearly impossible for a moment. It helps when I remember I have other senses, like feeling things. I can feel a blanket over me, and bed beneath me. But that doesn’t register first. What registers first is my hand on Thomas’ chest as it moves up and down. Our faces are close, and his leg is on top of my cast, but it doesn’t hurt.

   My medication usually makes me a heavy enough sleeper that I don’t remember my dreams, but this one I happened to have gave me anxiety, so I calm down by listening to Thomas’ breathing. I don’t stop to wonder what time it is, or if Minho is in here, or if I should leave. All I have to know is that I’m here, and Thomas is here. Nothing else is of much importance.

   Part of me wishes Thomas was awake so we could talk more, but for now, I’ll take what I can get. I move closer to him, and lay like that for who knows how long. I’m not counting.

  
  
  


When I wake up next, it’s to Thomas’ voice.

   “Newt?” he asks. I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep.

   I’m overjoyed to realize that I’m still here with him. “Yeah?” I ask, opening my eyes.

   “I hate to wake you guys, but it’s six.” This voice isn’t Thomas’. I lift my head to see Minho standing on the other side of the room. That wakes me up more. When I look at Thomas, his eyes are open but droopy, and he’s looking at me with a soft smile.

   “How did—how am I still here?” I ask, looking between them.

   “I was wondering the same thing,” Thomas asks, looking at Minho. His arm is still around me. “Did you do something?”

   “No, actually. All I did was tell Vince, and he said he’d cover for you. Thank him,” Minho says, before looking at me. “Morning, Newt.”

   “Morning,” I say back.

   Thomas looks confused and conflicted. “Vince? Really?”

   “Yeah, man,” Minho says. “I’m gonna leave you guys alone and get ready, but try to be out there soon, alright?”

   “Thanks, Min,” Thomas says. Minho nods to us, then leaves the room. I feel like I should be embarrassed, but I’ve got too much going on to bother. “I don’t want to move.”

   “Me neither,” I mumble. I just want to look up at Thomas’ messy hair, and listen to his groggy voice while remaining intertwined with him for hours. _I leave him today._

   I’m about to speak again, when Thomas beats me to it. “One of your first days here, I was in your room when you woke up. Do you remember that?”

   “I do,” I say. It was my second morning in here, and I remember being mortified thinking about the possibility of him seeing me sleeping. We’ve come a long way.

   “When we started talking that morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about how cute I found your voice when you first woke up,” Thomas says softly, a smile forming on his face. “Everything about you, actually. You wake up with a blush, you know.”

   The sudden blow to my heart as it hits me once more that I won’t have him tomorrow is so bad that if I was standing, I’d have doubled over from the pain. He sees in me what I see in him. Even the small things.

   “Really?” I ask, for lack of a better response. Thomas nods. I want to ask him to escape with me. Leave this place in his dust, and just come stay with me so we can take down TIMI together. “I think the same things about you, y’know.”

   Thomas reaches up and moves some of the hair from out of my eyes. It’s grown to be a bit longer since I got in here. The gesture sets butterflies off in my stomach. “I’m proud of you,” Thomas says. I manage a smile, because it’s him. “We should probably get out there before someone comes in here.”

   It hits me that we fell asleep fully clothed—shoes and all. I’m still wearing my dress shirt from the hearing. Usually that’d be unbearable, but I didn’t even notice. As Thomas and I begin to sit up, another thing comes to mind.

   “Oh, God, Chuck,” I say with a groan. “This was my last night and he was alone.”

   “Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Thomas says, shaking his head. “You said yourself that Chuck didn’t look in the mood to talk. It probably wouldn’t have gone anywhere anyway.”

   Regardless, I still feel awful. Of course I loved being with Thomas, but Chuck is never going to have me there again. I couldn’t even come through for him for one more night.

   Thomas doesn’t bother changing his clothes, but takes me in my chair to my already Chuck-less room to get changed while he goes to the bathroom. When he leaves me there, I automatically know what I want to be wearing today.

   I get up from my chair and walk to where I know I left it, then I take off my shirt and hold Thomas’ hoodie in front of me. Probably my favorite item of clothing I own now. I pull it on, and it fills me with the oddest mixture of sadness and comfort, and for a moment it’s like he’s already gone.

   When Thomas comes back in, he stops and gives me a once-over. There it is again; that sad smile. I mirror the expression, and walk back to the chair. I’m aware that I’m on nine, but I don’t want to do anything about it. Especially in front of Thomas.

   He takes me to breakfast, and I’m excited to see the rest of the Normals because I do want to spend what I have of today with them, despite how saddening it’ll be. On the way there, Thomas keeps looking around when I turn to look up at him.

   “I wonder where Vince is,” Thomas says quietly.

   “I don’t know, but I want to thank him,” I say, now looking out for him too.

   We find him at the doors of the dining area, standing up against the wall inside. He spots us, and Thomas takes us right to him. I never truly got mad at Vince for what he did, and especially after last night, I don’t think I ever will. He helped as much as he could, but asking him to lose his job for us is a bit much.

   “Hey, boys,” Vince says, addressing both of us.

   “That was you last night? That…” Thomas trails off. He sounds almost void of emotion, like he’s waiting for Vince’s answer before he can show any gratitude.

   “Covered you guys?” Vince asks quietly, after looking around us. “Yeah. I heard today is Newt’s last day, so I figured I’d leave you be. Took over that post.”

   “Thank you,” I jump in before Thomas can answer, “it meant a lot.”

   “Yeah. Thanks, Vince,” Thomas says.

   Vince nods at us. Again, I’m not embarrassed that he saw us. Especially since he’s apparently fine with it, and even wanted to help cover for us. “No problem. Congrats by the way, Newt. I’m really glad to see you doing better,” Vince says.

   “Thanks,” I say again. It’s a weird topic to be made uncomfortable by.

   “If you see me before you go, come say bye,” Vince says.

   I nod, then Thomas wheels me away, seemingly hurriedly. I’m not going to say this to him, but I hope he at least forgives Vince and becomes friendly with him again, even if he’s not going to help Thomas anymore. Vince is a good guy, and deep down, Thomas knows that.

   Chuck is seated at the table looking horrible. He looks like he didn’t sleep a wink, and his hair is tangled up more than usual, his face sunken in. I want to hug him right here and now, and apologize to him a thousand times. For leaving, and for everything else in his life.

   Thomas definitely notices, because he quickly sits down next to Chuck, patting his back discreetly—the nurses don’t love touchiness here—and smiling at him. “Hey, Chuck. Working on any new art projects?”

   Chuck looks up at him, shakes his head, then looks at me. “I thought you left,” he says.

   “No, actually. After lunch,” I say awkwardly. Did he think I’d leave without saying goodbye to him? _I’m a horrible person._

   “Oh,” Chuck says. He looks like he’s going to say something else, but he stops, turning away again.

   Thomas gives me an almost apologetic look. It’s not his fault Chuck is upset with me, and it’s not Chuck’s fault either for that matter. This is on me.

   “How’re you feeling?” Jeff asks me, leaning over Minho to talk. It’s definitely appreciated.

   “Terrible,” I reply truthfully. “I’m not looking forward to saying goodbye to you guys.”

   Jeff nods. “I’m sure it’ll get easier once you’re back in your own bed,” he says.

   “I’m sorry,” I say. I must sound like a jerk to them. I know how it must seem, being so upset on what should be a really exciting day. “I’m really lucky, I know, I just want you guys to know that, um,” I pause, seeing that now I have everyone’s attention, “I’m really thankful you guys took me in. I haven’t had friends in a long time, and it just meant a lot to me to find all of you here, and to feel accepted for once.”

   The Normals all smile, nodding along as I speak. When I look at Chuck, he’s avoiding my eyes, and he looks utterly conflicted.

   After a few of them tell me they’re also grateful to have me, Chuck excluded, Thomas speaks up.

   “You guys need to know something,” Thomas says, leaning forward. As usual, everyone listens. “Newt worked extra hard to recover for a reason. Do you remember the lawsuit against TIMI?”

   They all look between each other, nodding with frowns on their faces. I can’t believe Thomas is actually saying anything.

   “Well, I can tell you more later, but Newt is going to help give Winston the justice he deserves. He’s got all the info he needs, but he can’t do it from in here. So if you’ve got any grievances with him leaving so early, just know that he’s earned this, and he’s doing it to help us,” Thomas says. He turns to Chuck now, who’s looking at me with wide eyes. “Chuck, do you really think Newt wants to leave you? He loves you, and he wants to protect you. He’s not trying to abandon you in any way. I promise.”

   Chuck’s got tears in his eyes. “Is that true?” he asks me.

   I nod. “You’re like a brother to me, Chuck. I hate leaving you, I really do, and I wish I didn’t have to. Like I said, if you need to hate me for it, I understand. But just know I’ll always fight for you.”

   “Why didn’t you just tell me you were leaving to help Winston?” Chuck says. The words sound angry, but his tone is soft.

   “I told him not to because I didn’t want to worry you,” Thomas says.

   “I’m so sorry, Chuck,” I say.

   Chuck shakes his head. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t want you to leave, I shouldn’t have gotten angry. You deserve to go.”

    _So do you,_ I want to say. “Don’t apologize,” I say. I’m just glad a bit of this has been cleared up. Chuck hating me was going to make leaving a thousand times harder.

   “Can we all be good now, then? Just appreciate Newt while we’ve got him?” Thomas asks.

   Chuck agrees, and everyone else joins in. Suddenly, I’m being asked questions about outpatient and my recovery so far, told advice they’ve heard from past people they saw leave, and am the overall topic of conversation. It’s mainly just nice to talk about this with Chuck.

   Thomas looks happy, engaged in the conversations too, but every few minutes I catch him staring off, his face going blank. One of the times, I tap him on the arm.

   “Are you okay?” I ask.

   “That’s a strange question,” Thomas simply replies. When he sees my face drop, he continues. “I’m fine, don’t worry.”

   I have no choice but to agree, because if it’s about what I’m thinking, then I can’t help him. No matter how much I want to.

  
  
  


We spend the time between breakfast and the Normals’ classes together in the rec room, and it pretty much goes the same as breakfast. Then, it’s time for them to disappear for an hour or so, Thomas taking me back to my room.

   “I can probably get out of it somehow,” Thomas says, as I stand up.

   “It’s alright, don’t get in any more trouble,” I say, not meaning a word of it. I’d do anything for Thomas to be able to stay.

   “I hate this,” Thomas says, frustration bleeding through his voice. I can tell he means it. “I don’t want to leave you, I don’t want to go to this stupid class, I don’t want to—” Thomas cuts himself off, breathing deeply.

   “Tommy,” I say softly to counter his tone, stepping forward to be in front of him. It looks like he struggles to meet my eyes. “I’ll be here when you get out, okay?”

   I mean it in so many ways.

   Thomas nods. “I don’t want to leave,” he says.

   “Me neither,” I say, my voice breaking.

   Thomas turns and looks out the door, then back to me. “I’ll help you pack when I get back.”

   “Thank you,” I say, though packing is the last thing I want to do.

   Thomas leaves, and I look down at my things. I know Thomas said he’d help, but I’d much rather spend my last bit of time with him talking rather than gathering my stuff.  

   As I put things together, deciding to just hurry through it on my own, I find myself slipping and doing mindless rounds of tens. Nobody else is around to see, so does it really count? _Yes, of course it does._

   The thing that makes me want to stop is picking up the shark toy. It’s like a little piece of Thomas is watching me, reminding me of how I need to move forward with my recovery. I almost resent it; but only because I know that it’s right.

   I roll up my clothes and put them into my suitcase, grateful for the busy work as a distraction, until all that’s left is to get the things from the nurses’ station. I can’t do that now though, so I sit down on my bed with the one thing I haven’t packed yet. My journal.

   There’s no danger in anyone reading my journal behind my back anymore now, so I finally write about everything I’ve held back from before. I document conversations with Thomas, the time we broke into Janson’s office, me being in Gally’s room, and more personal things like last night and the way I’m feeling right now. This is all I do for a while; so long that I’ve completely lost track of time.

   When Thomas walks in, I almost think I’ve spent a whole hour writing until I look at the time. “It’s only fifteen after nine,” I say questioningly, looking up at him.

   “It is, but I also made the great point of the fact that it’s Saturday, and went on and on until they agreed to let me speed through a thing or two then go,” Thomas says proudly, before sitting on my bed. I can’t help but smile. “I see you’re pretty much packed.”

   “I didn’t want to waste my time with you packing,” I say.

   “I’m sorry you had to do it on your own,” Thomas says, before spotting my journal. “If you give me that, I can flip to the back and write down some of the information you need. Mrs. Flores’ number, and stuff.”

   “Sure,” I say, opening it to the back, far from the pages I’ve been writing in. I hand it to Thomas, along with something to write with. “Oh, and if you wanted to add any other phone numbers or addresses I should know, that’d be good too.”

   “Like what?” Thomas asks.

   “I don’t know. Anything you know. Chuck’s information, maybe. The Normals’,” I say, dancing around the question.

   “You want mine too, don’t you?” Thomas asks, and I can’t tell if his tone is accusatory or not. “I can give you my info, but good luck gaining anything from it.”

   With that, he starts writing, balancing the journal on his knees, which are in front of me so I can’t see.

   “Thank you,” I say, as he continues scribbling.

   “Don’t thank me. You’re helping _us_ out, remember?” Thomas says, his speech somewhat delayed, since he stops writing to talk. “You didn’t get your things signed out yet, right?”

   “No, not yet,” I say, as Thomas gets back to it. For some reason, I’m curious to see his handwriting. I know it’s just information he’s writing down, but I decide not to look at the page until I’m home. One last little bit of Thomas to take with me.

   It winds up actually being a few minutes of Thomas writing in silence, and he almost seems frustrated at times like he can’t think. Is it hard for him to remember the numbers? Or does he have a difficult time writing things out?

   Eventually, Thomas hands it back to me, closing the journal as he does so. I pack it away along with the rest of my things, and now, my whole side of the room is empty. It’s unsettling to look at the bareness of it, compared to Chuck’s side.

   “What do you want to do til the rest of them get out of class?” Thomas asks. The question sounds so _normal._ Like we actually are living out our little fantasy of being roommates at a university, and the rest of the Normals are attending too.

   I reply with the truth. “Be with you.”

   Thomas smiles at me, checks the door quickly, then moves my suitcase to the end of the bed before shifting so that he’s next to me. “Be with me, then,” he says, his eyes flicking down my face before meeting mine again.

    _God, I like this boy_ too _much._ Thomas lets me know I didn’t read the moment wrong when he leans in at the same time as I do to kiss him, each of us showing an equal level of desperation. Hopefully, I’m showing him how much I’ll miss this—and him—without having to use my words.

   I try to make this last. Not just the moment itself, but the memory. How his hands feel, the way his nose brushes against my cheek, how safe it feels being so close to him. I never want to forget it. I’ll always want this back, I know I will.

   It’s almost scary how strong this is. How much I feel for him. But those thoughts get lost somewhere in our shared space, and they’re dismissed almost immediately.

  
  
  


After the Normals get out, it’s medication time—my last one ever, now—then, we all hang out together, Chuck sitting by me this time. I try to stay grounded, and the conversation does help. But it doesn’t stop the rest of the day from flashing through my mind. We’ve got less than an hour until group, then lunch, then before I know it, my parents will be here to pick me up. Then that’s it. It’s all over.

   I’m holding Thomas’ hand, and none of the nurses that see say a word. What’ll they even do at this point?

   Word has gotten around big time that I’m leaving—probably because of the way it happened. I can imagine that’d be a topic of conversation among the nurses here. TIMI fought me, and they lost. Hopefully, the exact same thing will happen again soon.

   I’m not sure I’ve got the motivational speaker in me today the way Fry did. But I have a lot to say to everyone, so I try to think about it now. Thomas said he’d give everyone my info—which I never gave him myself, actually—so that I don’t have to worry about it. I’d like for them to have my number and address for when they get out of here.

   I’ve definitely got every intention of reaching out to Frypan when I leave. It’d be nice to talk to someone who gets it, and I really do like Fry. Plus, it’s not like I have anyone else to hang out with.

   When it comes time for group, I’m not sure what to expect. I’m honestly not expecting much as far as acknowledgement goes, so when Thomas takes me in and I see Ava Paige immediately glaring at me, I’m almost caught off guard by it.

   “What’s with her?” Thomas asks lowly, as he stops me by my chair.

   I shrug as I stand up. “Me, probably.”

   Thomas just rolls his eyes before moving my wheelchair to behind us. I sit down in the meantime, and Dr. Paige now has a tight smile, looking around the group. Once everyone is seated, she clears her throat.

   “As some of you may know, Newton is leaving today,” she starts, genuinely surprising me.

   “Go, Newt!” Zart cuts in with a grin. I’m half mortified, but it’s also kind of funny. Minho seems to find it funny too, snickering next to him.

   “Would you like to say a few words about your recovery, Newton?” Dr. Paige asks, her voice dripping with fake kindness. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

   I feel my face heat up, and I have to scream at myself in my head not to shake my leg in tens or show any other signs of discomfort. My mouth goes dry as I open it, looking around. The Normals all look nervous, and it makes me even more scared that I look as bad as I feel.

   “Um,” I start off beautifully. “I’ve been really lucky to figure myself out as easily as I have. If you’re thinking there’s no hope for you, or you’ll never find out what’s going on with yourself, don’t give up. I’m glad I finally got to the bottom of it. I just needed to be a bit more open minded.”

   My eyes keep moving around, trying not to stare at any one person. Especially not Dr. Paige. If I could, I would have just wanted to talk directly to Thomas. But I can’t, so now I’m stuck overthinking where I look while simultaneously trying to say something coherent.

   “One more thing,” I say, wondering why on earth I’d want to continue. “Recovery has to be something you want. If you’re dealing with something and refusing help, give it a chance. Do it for the life you want to have. You deserve it. There’s something out there for you, and you’ll find it. I promise.”

   “Thank you for sharing,” Ava Paige says. She doesn’t mean it. “Let’s go around with our recovery goals. Who would like to start?”

   “Me,” Thomas says from beside me. I turn to him with raised eyebrows. He just glances at me before starting with no further approval from Dr. Paige. “I want to start talking more in therapy. Do more research; hopefully be diagnosed. Someone has recently made me want a future. Whether I get it or not, I don’t know. But I’ll try.”

   I’m close to tears. Hearing him say that, especially in front of Ava Paige, makes me feel such a sense of relief. He has to mean it; he _has_ to. I’m going to get him out of here. He doesn’t belong in this place.

   Thomas will get his future.

  
  
  


There’s a massive pit in my stomach during lunch, and my anxiety is so bad I’m shaking my leg non-stop. Not doing my tens, just shaking. Thomas keeps trying to subtly do things to calm me down, but none of it is working, as much as I wish it would.

   Everyone can sense how on edge I am. It’s almost exhausting me, and I keep putting my head down on Thomas’ shoulder to take a few deep breaths. He puts his hand on my leg, and I put my hand on top of his hand, holding it. I never knew one person could bring out all of this in me. Comfort, sadness—everything.

   The rest of the Normals look at us with such pity that it makes it even sadder. Thomas hasn’t even been hiding his emotions that much in the past hour, and when we talk, I can feel the way we sound obligated to, trying to fight the clock that’s going against us.

   After lunch, we wind up back in the rec room. I don’t know exactly when my parents are coming to get me, but I’m not looking forward to their arrival. For now, we talk, and I try to get out my words while I still can.

   “I wanted to say stuff to you all,” I say, before taking a pause to inhale slowly. My intake of air cannot seem to stay consistent. “Y’know, the way Fry did.”

   “You think you’re up for it?” Jeff asks, seemingly out of pure curiosity.

   “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie. “Jeff, you’re a great kid. I don’t think people tell you that enough. I’m really glad to know you. Thank you for being so supportive all the time, and don’t just resign to what people tell you about yourself. Alright?”

   “Thanks, man,” Jeff says, with a nod.

   “Zart,” I start, “that applies to you, too. You’re important, and I know you won’t be here forever. Keep going with therapy in the future, too.”

   He smiles. “I don’t feel I really need it, but I’ll try,” he says. I’m not sure if I trust a word of it, but I know Zart—if he tried—could be out of here soon.

   “Aris, I just want to say you’re doing amazingly. I’m really happy to see how much progress you’ve made even just since meeting you. We’re all really proud, and I know it’s hard, but it’ll get better. I swear it will,” I say. “You’ll have an amazing life from here on out. You just have to keep fighting for it. Could you do that for yourself?”

   “I’m trying. I promise,” Aris says. He looks almost surprised. “Thank you so much, Newt.”

   Now that I’m talking, it’s helping, but I still feel like I’m going to be sick. I try to throw myself into the advice I’m giving the Normals, but it feels eerily like goodbyes because they _are._

   “When’s my turn?” Minho asks, with a fake offended tone.

   “Now, apparently,” I say, going along with the joke. “I’ve loved getting to know you so far, and you’ve been a really great friend. Keep trying to get better, okay? You’re funny and kind, and not at all bad, even if people try to convince you that you are. You control your fate, alright?”

   Minho smiles. “You forgot to mention the fact that I’m devilishly handsome,” he says. I’ve been around long enough to know he chooses humor over emotions.

   “That too,” I say, smiling back. “Seriously Minho, you’ve got this, alright? Look out for yourself.”

   Minho nods, then I look at Chuck and Thomas, and it’s too much. This is what I’ve been dreading most. I can’t do this, I can’t say goodbye to them. Thinking about it is impossible, let alone actually being faced with it.

   “I…” I start, looking between them. Thomas is sat next to me, and Chuck is directly across, facing us. There are no other words coming out of my mouth, and I think they know that by now.

   “Do you want to get the rest of your stuff from the nurses’ station? You, me and Chuck?” Thomas asks.

   Nobody reads me as well as Thomas. When I leave here, nobody will be around to do that anymore.

   The three of us set off to the nurses’ station, and I wish I could find it in me to speak. Thomas and Chuck fill the silence a little, but I’m just trying to find the right words to say. Are there any at all? Talking to the rest of the Normals was somewhat easy, but when it comes to Thomas and Chuck, I’ve got so much to say that summing it all up in a few sentences seems wrong somehow.

   When we get there, I stand at the window of it. It doesn’t take long for a nurse to come over. He looks between the three of us, then his eyes settle on me again.

   “Hi, I’m being discharged today, and I needed to sign out—”

   “Oh,” the nurse says, recognition lighting up his expression. “You’re Newton, right?”

   “Um, yeah,” I say. I’m absolutely right about the nurses knowing who I am.

   “You definitely made quite the name for yourself here,” he says.

   “Alright, Scott, just get him his stuff, alright?” Thomas chimes in, moving forward to come up to the window.

   “Watch your tone, Thomas,” Scott says, but he doesn’t seem all that threatening. “Same goes for you, by the way. But you know that already.”

   “What does this have to do with anything?” Thomas asks sharply.

   I grab Thomas’ arm. “Tommy, leave it,” I warn. The last thing I want is Thomas getting in trouble before I go.

   “Listen,” Scott says, leaning forward. “I applaud you for getting out of here. It was nice to see Dr. Paige knocked down a peg. Can I just ask something?”

   “What?” I ask.

   “Why did you leave?” Scott asks, looking between the two of us.

   I turn to Thomas. How do I answer that? The “official” story is that Thomas forced me to go. But here I am, standing with him and letting everyone here know I’m close with him. What do the nurses know? What does _Scott_ know?

   “Ask Dr. Paige that question,” Thomas replies after a moment. “Now can you please get Newt the rest of his things?”

   Scott moves back, looking disappointed before he sighs out a “Fine.”

   When he turns to go into the back of the room, Thomas shakes his head, clearly still bothered. “It’s fine,” I say, in a weak attempt to calm him down.

   “The nurses here are morons if he really doesn’t know what’s going on. And if he _does_ know, then he’s just a complete—”

    _“Thomas,”_ I say, glancing down at Chuck, who’s looking at us uncomfortably.

   Thomas’ face softens. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m just tired.”

   He does look tired, but something tells me that’s not really why he’s lashing out.

   Eventually, Scott comes back with a bin of my things, then places it on the floor beside him. “I’ll bring it to the front desk, so you can just pick it up on your way out.”

   “Thanks,” I say. Thomas looks like he wants to say something, but instead, he just avoids everyone’s eyes, taking a deep breath. Because I want to get out of there, I sit back down in my chair, and Thomas starts wheeling me away from the window. “Tommy?”

   “Yeah?” he asks.

   “Can we go back to my room?” I ask. Technically, it’s Chuck’s room now. But I’m not going to say that yet.

   We head there instead of back to the rec room, and now none of us are talking. I long to hear Chuck rambling on about absolutely anything, but instead, all of us seem to be trapped in our heads. When we pass a clock, I look at the time. It’s nearly a quarter to two. They could show up at any time now.

   When we get into our room, I stand up, looking at my almost empty side. Chuck sits on his bed, and Thomas sits on mine. My two best friends sitting in my room with me, the way it should be. I want this forever.

   I sit down beside Thomas, immediately holding onto him somehow, like he’s a safety blanket of some sort. Then, I look at the younger boy across from me. Seeing him so sad kills me. It helps that he understands, but it doesn’t take away the fact that I’m leaving.

   “Chuck… you’re easily the sweetest, brightest, most amazing kid I’ve ever met,” I start, feeling my eyes start to tear up.

   When Chuck looks at me, I see he’s already crying. “Do we have to do this?” he asks.

   “We don’t have to,” I say. Pretending to be strong for him is difficult.  

   He considers this, before eventually nodding. “You can continue,” he says.

   Half of me is disappointed that I need to keep going through this miserable speech, but the other half is glad because I do need Chuck to know all of this. Know what he means to me.

   “If I could have picked a roommate out of everyone here, it would be you. Always. Nothing helped more than waking up to see you every day. You’re a brother to us all, and we all love you so much. Never change what makes you so special, Chuck,” I say, letting my tears fall freely. I only care about getting this out. “I swear to you that I’ll always do anything I can to keep you safe. That’s why I’m leaving in the first place. You’ve only just started. You’ll get the life you deserve. We’ll make sure of it.”

   Chuck wordlessly stands up, walking from his bed to mine and plopping down next to me, hugging me tightly and sobbing as he buries his head in my chest. I hug him back, trying to comfort him. “You’re a light in this world, Chuck. Don’t forget it, alright?” I say after a minute.

   “Thank you, Newt,” Chuck says, muffled by his sobs.

   “Thank _you._ For everything,” I say. It’s too final. “I’ll see you soon.”

   “Okay,” Chuck says, sniffling. “You promise?”

   “I do,” I say. The thought of not seeing Chuck again hurts as much as the thought of not seeing Thomas again. I won’t let that happen.

   After a little while, Thomas stands up and moves to the other side of Chuck, before joining in on our hug. His arms reach around Chuck to me, and I feel so at home like this. I don’t want to leave without them by my side.

   I’ve still got a steady stream of tears on my face when I hear a knock at the already open door, making all three of us look up.

   The sight of my mother makes me feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. “Hi, sweetie. I’m sorry.”

   I reach up to wipe my face when Chuck and Thomas pull away. All three of us are crying. It must be a strange scene to walk into, but I don’t care what she sees at this point. I don’t want to _stay,_ I just want to bring them with me. The not-so-possible ways to sneak them out with me run through my head as my mom walks over carefully.

   “Chuck, Thomas, it’s nice to see you both again,” Mom says to them.

   “It’s nice to see you too,” Thomas says shakily, looking up at her. Chuck only nods at her.

   “Your father is getting your things. Is this your suitcase?” she asks, pointing to the other side of the bed.

   “Yeah,” I say weakly.

   Chuck stands up. “I’ll be in the rec room with everyone else. Come back in there before you leave, okay?” He doesn’t even wait for a response before he’s out the door.

   Thomas, though, stays. There’s no way I’d let him leave this room. When I look at him, he’s looking at me, and it hits me. _Thomas._ I haven’t said _anything_ to him yet. I’ve got so much to say, but I can’t even find a place to start. We’ve been through so much, and now I don’t even know if we’ll get a private goodbye.

   My mother goes to grab my suitcase, but Thomas intervenes, grabbing it first. “I’ve got it,” he says quietly.

   “Thank you,” Mom says. “Newt’s father can take it once he’s in here.”

   I don’t want to see my father right now. Not at _all._ The only person I want to be with is Thomas. Nothing feels like it could possibly be good enough. No words, actions, or amount of time seems correct for our goodbye. Even just thanking him would take days.

   “I need time,” I blurt out. They both look at me. “I-I haven’t said goodbye, I need a minute, I can’t just leave right away, I haven’t even—” I have to cut myself off, because I run out of air and my tears start again.

   Thomas puts my suitcase back on the bed and sits back down next to me, rubbing my back. I find no comfort in his expression, either. His face looks physically dragged down, like looking anything but utterly depressed would be painful. I miss his smile more than anything.

   “You can take your time, don’t worry,” Mom says. I wish she’d leave the room.

   “Thank you,” I say, my voice breaking. I’m not sure if it’s to her, Thomas, or both.

   We sit like that for a minute, and the more time that goes by, the more unnerved I get. I know we can’t stay like that forever, and I also can’t say anything I want to say to Thomas in front of my mother. So, we have to move. I have to leave my room for the last time.

   “We should get out there,” I say eventually. Thomas gets up and heads for my chair, but I stop him. “I want to walk, actually,” I say. I’ve already formulated a plan. I’ll try not to count, but if I do, I’ll just keep track of the numbers and then snap my fingers in the car later if I must. I’m definitely not doing that here. But I _have_ to walk. First of all, I’m getting my cast off fairly soon. Secondly, I don’t want to be so far from Thomas. I want to be next to him for as long as I can.

   “Are you sure?” Thomas asks. I nod, and then I’m getting up. Thomas takes my suitcase, and I look around the room one last time. I’ll definitely miss this place in a way. It seems strange that I would, but I look back and see nights playing games with Chuck, or mornings waking up to Thomas at the door, or my biggest breakthroughs with my OCD. All in here. I definitely won’t miss solitary, though.

   We all walk out, and I’ve got the numbers ticking in my head as I limp along. It’s easier to focus on those than what’s happening right now. I spot my father at the end of the hall, holding my bin of things, and it makes me feel so much worse. Now that he’s got my things, he’ll be rushing us. Rushing me.

   I turn my attention to Thomas, and he looks at me. My mother is walking ahead of us. “It’s okay,” he says so quietly he practically mouths it to me.

   I merely shake my head. I’d like to believe him in any way, but it’s hard right now. I want to be back to last night. When I try to put myself back there, it’s clouded with the vision of the sad boy in front of me.

   We keep walking until we get to my father, and I keep noticing my mom looking back at Thomas and me. She looks concerned. I get it. I’d probably be concerned too, considering how upset I look leaving a literal psych ward. But that’s not the thing I’m sad about.

   When we reach my father, he just looks at us all. “You ready to go?” he asks.

   The words are a punch to the gut. I go to answer, asking for five more minutes, but my mom beats me to it. She grabs my suitcase from Thomas’ hands, then faces my dad. “We’re going to take his things to the car, then come back in to sign him out.”

   I’ve never been more grateful to her. My dad looks like he may say no, but then he looks at me again. My cheeks are tear stained, and I’m still sniffling. I don’t expect him to have much sympathy for me, but I give him a pleading look anyway.

   “Fine,” he says. He doesn’t acknowledge Thomas—not that I thought he would—before walking away, my mother following.

   “Tommy,” I say as soon as they’re out of earshot. The implication is, _they’re gone._

   He seems to be ahead of me on that one, taking my hand. “My room is closer,” he says. We walk the short distance, then stand beside the door, facing each other.

   It seems like we both vaguely know how this is supposed to go—a teary, heartfelt, private goodbye, like something out of a movie. But that doesn’t mean I know what to say. What could possibly make an impact.

   “I don’t want to leave you,” is what comes out first.

   “I know,” Thomas says.

   We’re silent for a moment, and every second that passes is a second I could be saying something important. Anxiety takes over, trying to shut me down. “There’s so much I want to say to you,” I say.

   “You don’t have to,” Thomas says, shaking his head.

   “I do,” I say. I’ll hate myself if I can’t get _something_ out, after everything he’s done for me. “Tommy, you… you’re giving me a life. I don’t know how I can even thank you for that aside from trying to do the same for you. I’ll do it, you know. I will.” I wish these stupid tears would calm down so I could get through my words clearly.

   He seems to be in the same position, so I continue. “I’ve never felt so strongly about another person, and usually saying that would scare me, but I need you to know. I need you to know you’re more than your disorder, and it doesn’t make you who you are. You’re the most amazing person I’ll ever meet. Please don’t give up. Please, Tommy,” I say.

   “I won’t,” Thomas says. Unlike every time before, I believe him.

   “Thank you for taking me on a roller coaster,” I say. It’s a lot more than what it sounds like. I manage a weak smile, because it happened. All of that happened. Thomas smiles back, but it falters as more tears fall.

   “Thank you for letting me,” Thomas says. He’s been holding my hand this whole time, and he squeezes it now. “I’m going to try, but you have to promise you will too. You can do this on your own. I’ll be here, but you can recover with or without me. You’re so close, Newt. If you don’t try, all of this will have been for nothing.”

   “I will,” I say, nodding.

   “We’ll, um—” Thomas says. He locks his eyes onto my face. I can tell he’s trying to ground himself. “We’ll find our way back, right?”

    _To each other._ That’s what he means. I know it. “We will,” I say.

   Thomas looks almost conflicted for a moment. “Newt, I don’t—”

   “Guys.” We turn to see Vince standing in the doorway. “If you’re going to go say goodbye to everyone else, I’d do it now, Newt. Your parents are back out there.”

   I cannot believe this is happening. Thomas nods to Vince, then I grab his attention again. “What were you going to say?” I ask.

   Thomas just looks me over. It reminds me of the look my mother gave me before leaving me here. Like she was trying to memorize me incase this was the last time we’d see each other. Then, he wraps his arms around me.

   Vince turns away a bit, giving us the smallest amount of privacy as I hug Thomas back. I hold onto him, also trying to memorize this feeling and him and everything else that I possibly could. When he pulls back, he stops, and I kiss him before he’s even halfway leaned in. I try to memorize that too. No matter what, I can’t forget that this is right, and I’m not wrong for thinking so.

   Now is where the inevitable happens. The crash and burn. I pull away, and Vince looks back at us, nodding his head in the direction of the door. He escorts us down the hall.

   “They’re signing you out. You can go to the rec room before you go to them,” Vince says, as we approach it.

   “Thank you,” I say. When we’re there, I stop, turning to Vince and Thomas in a place where no other nurses are nearby. “Vince, you’ve done so much for us. You’re the only one here who sees us as people, and that means a lot. I really hope all the good you’ve done comes back to you,” I tell him truthfully. He’s a good man, and he deserves to know, despite my delivery being a bit flat in my state of sadness.

   He gives me a smile. “Thank you, kiddo. You’ll do great out there. I’m proud of you.”

   I thank him again, and then he takes us into the rec room. Moving—especially with the cast—is so exhausting I feel like I may collapse. I’ve got no motivation to walk, or talk, or do anything really. I’m freezing, too, and it gives me a hollow feeling that’s so frustrating because nothing can help it. Nothing at all.

   I’m faced with my friends again, and they all come up to me. They each hug me, giving me their goodbyes. I’m on complete autopilot again as I deliver any parting words, until Chuck comes up, crying like he hasn’t stopped since we were all together in my room. That’s the case for Thomas and me, so I wouldn’t be all that surprised.

   He wraps his arms around me tightly. “Bye, Newt,” he says into my hoodie.

   “Bye, Chuck,” I say, my words so choked up they’re borderline unrecognizable. “I’ll visit. I’ll call. Okay?”

   “Okay,” Chuck says. He pulls away. “You were the best roommate ever.”

   “So were you, buddy,” I say, trying to keep it together for him.

   “Thank you for doing this for us,” Chuck says sincerely. At that, the rest of the Normals chime in. They thank me, clapping me on the back and smiling at me, some of them teary eyed. I’m doing this for them. I’ll get them, Gally, and everyone else in this place what they deserve.

   “I won’t let you down,” I say, looking at the group. After everything they’ve done for me, I owe them this. They should recover; be somewhere safe for them. I’ll fight to make it happen.

   “Newt? You’re signed out.”

   It’s Vince. I close my eyes when I hear him behind me. Time to rejoin the real world.

   Thomas walks out with me, and nobody stops him. We continue down the hallway, until we’re by the front, in view of my parents. My heart is trying to beat out of my chest. Maybe to Thomas.

   When we get to where I know Thomas won’t be able to go, I stop in my tracks. He can’t pass this checkpoint in life with me. Our worlds no longer overlap once I take my next steps.

   My parents are watching. A few nurses are watching too. But I’m not looking at them. They’re a blur in the background, and I’ve got tunnel vision.

   “I’m going to miss having you here,” Thomas says.

   “This isn’t goodbye.” I’m not sure if I’m convincing him or myself.

   “It’s not,” Thomas says. He flinches as the words come out.

   I feel like I’m being sped up, although nobody is saying a thing to us. “I’ll see you soon, Tommy,” I say, because saying that is easier.

   I’m not too worried about being told off when I hug him again, holding him close to me. I only notice we’re both shaking when I feel us begin to settle, steadying each other. He buries his head in my shoulder; into his hoodie.

   “Newt,” he starts, “you know this isn’t just because there were no other options, right?”

   I reluctantly pull away to look at him, but we’re still very close. “What do you mean?” I ask quietly.

   “With Dmitri, I always tell you that I dated him because there weren’t a lot of options at the time. That I wasn’t in love with him,” Thomas says. Time is slowing around us. “I didn’t start this, with you, because I have no options. Not even just to help you figure out who you are. This is different, Newt.”

   His eyes trail off to my parents, like he’s suddenly very aware of their presence. They must be watching us. Thomas wouldn’t want to do anything they shouldn’t see.

   “Newt, come on honey.” My mom is calling me. She’s got impatience laced in her voice.

   Thomas looks like he’s going to walk away or leave me, and I won’t have that. Not yet. He may care, but I have nothing to lose. Not anymore.

   I take his hand and step back to him, holding onto his shoulder to make sure he knows what I’m doing before I kiss him. He melts into it, and it’s so desperate that it breaks my heart even further. This is it. No more escaping after this. My final act.

   Apparently, this has gone too far in the eyes of the nurses. I hear two dueling voices, one of which belongs to Vince and the other, I’ve got no clue. It’s the signal that this is over, and the closer they get to separating us, the less I want to part.

   I’m not sure how long we stand there, before we pull away, both looking as shocked as the other at everything happening. A nurse tries to tell Thomas he’s too close to the exit, and I’ve never wanted other people to disappear more.

   In fact, so many things are happening that my brain can’t compute what Thomas says as he still stands his ground in front of me. His eyes are wide, and there’s a look I can’t quite place in his eyes. Something like hope, something like fear.

   Despite the commotion, he says it softly. But not with uncertainty. Almost as if he can’t help the words from tumbling out of his mouth.

   “I love you.”

   One final hit. The kind of hit that knocks the wind out of someone. So much so that I’m rendered speechless as I look back at him.

   My words are so delayed that they only come out as Thomas starts to walk backwards to Vince. I can only hope he catches them, because I mean it. “I love you too,” I say. It’s quiet and I’m crying, so I have no way of knowing if it got to him as Vince takes his arm.

   Back to the beginning. Paralyzed. Except this time, I’m not in a school hallway lost without my tens. No, this time I’m in the hallway of the horrible place where I met the boy I love. And now, I’m lost as I helplessly watch him being taken from me.

   Before he’s out of view, and I feel my mother behind me, he turns one last time. Through tears, he gives me one last reassuring smile.

   Now, I want to get out of here.

   I walk past her, and I think she says something I don’t pay attention to before I get to my father. He’s looking at me, but I don’t look him in the eye, instead just opening the door. He catches it behind me, but I keep going. It occurs to me that I have no idea where we’re parked, but that doesn’t stop me either.

   They catch up with me, and I say nothing. I let the horribly harsh air hit my face, drying some of my tears as I clutch onto the sleeves of Tommy’s hoodie. I’m led in the general direction of the car, and every step further gets worse. The pressure on my foot from walking fast is painful and sharp, and reminds me of going on the bumper cars with Thomas.

   I have to remind myself to breathe, yet I can’t seem to get nearly enough air in my lungs. It feels like part of me is still in there, because it is. Thomas, the Normals—who am I in my recovery without them?

   When we get to the car, I open my door and get in. I haven’t been counting. Not at all. The realization makes my anxiety worse, but it’s also not my biggest concern at the moment. I’ve got an abundance of those.

   My mother looks back at me as my father starts the car. The look I give her in return can’t be controlled. It’s hard to describe, but if I had to, it’d be a don’t-even-try glare. Obviously it works, because she turns back to the front.

   So there we are. Me, staring out the window with tears occasionally coming with more memories and realizations, and my divorcing parents sitting up front in silence. The longer we get into the car ride, the more uncomfortable it gets. Part of me wishes one of them would say something, considering I just kissed a boy in front of them.

   But no. I don’t think I’d have the energy to reply, anyway. So nobody says a word. They’re probably thinking all sorts of things, and the stress of it makes me so anxious I think I may vibrate out of my skin.

   When we get home, I put my suitcase in my bin of things from the nurses’ station, then get out of the car. Nobody offers to take it from me. I still wonder what they’re thinking.

   It’s weird looking back up at my house. It’s been so long since I’ve been here, that the energy of it seems to have changed. I’m a different person. My parents are different people too. The house holds a whole new life to it compared to two months ago.

   My father walks ahead of my mother and me and unlocks the door, his expression unreadable. I walk in first, my mom following.

   The house is cold, and I don’t want to be here. When I look around, I see places my parents had their worst fights, or where I’d discovered new compulsions. It’s not that TIMI is better in any way, but this is where my illness stemmed from. Everything was here.

   We’re all in the living room, and I’m so tired I could pass out, but I can’t. Not yet. With this in mind, I take a deep breath and turn to face my parents, my heart in my throat. I look between them, and they’re eyeing me like a bomb that’s about to go off.

   I know I can’t just walk away without saying _anything._ So I deliver these words before I flee to my bedroom and lock the door behind me, not waiting for a response or even a reaction from my parents afterwards.

   “Mom, Dad. I’m gay.”


	49. forty nine

The sleep I fall into after delivering the now not-so-shocking news to my parents is a horrible one at best. At first, I lay there with my things on the floor. I shake uncontrollably, and no matter what blankets I put on, it just keeps getting more freezing. The Normals were wrong about me missing my own bed. Truth is, I couldn’t care less about where I am right now.

   After a while, and ignoring two knocks at my door, I lean down and open the suitcase. I see my journal first, and I decide to look through it later. Then, I take out what I was looking for—the shark toy. I get back on the bed, then hold it to my chest, bringing my blanket back up. I’m not sure I’ve got any tears left in me at this point. I think I may even be dehydrated, considering my head is pounding. 

   Eventually, I wind up falling asleep. But only for a little while. An hour, maybe. Then, I toss and turn for a bit. Following that, I knock out again, only to have a nightmare, causing me to wake up again. I don’t remember the nightmare, but it was enough to make me jolt awake. 

   I try to sleep some more, and I continue the pattern. Whenever I’m awake, I face my horrible thoughts—how I don’t have Thomas anymore, I don’t have my friends anymore, I don’t have much of a family anymore, my parents know I’m gay, and pretty much a thousand more things—which makes me just tired enough not to be able to get up, but apparently not tired enough to stay knocked out. It sucks. Everything sucks. 

   Anyone would probably tell me I’ve got nothing to be upset about, and maybe they’d be right. But from where I’m standing, all I’m seeing is how unfair everything is. It’s unfair that my friends are trapped. It’s unfair that it’s up to me to get them out. It’s unfair that my parents are getting a divorce because of me. It’s unfair that I have OCD. It’s unfair that I fell in love and didn’t even realize it until he was being ripped from me.

   I think, in a way, I knew I was in love with Thomas. But isn’t it scary to admit that no matter what? In my case, it’d be that times a thousand. Thomas, however, is special. Knowing him for almost two months felt like a lifetime, especially in there. 

   I think it is love. Soon or not, ridiculous or not, it’s stronger than anything I felt for Alby. Not just because Thomas was the first person I ever experienced all of these things with, or, in his words, because there were no other options. I’d like to think this would have happened no matter what circumstances we met under; and I wish they were different ones. 

   Thinking about Thomas gives me my first peaceful stretch of sleep.

  
  
  
  


It’s half past seven when I wake up next. My first thought is that I should try to call Thomas. I sit up, then I’m presented with my suitcase again. My eyes find the journal.

   I can’t call TIMI before I have to face my parents, because it’s just occurring to me that the only phone I have right now is the burner phone Thomas got me. My actual phone is still buried out there. 

   So, I pick the journal up. I flip through, past the pages I wrote in, until I find a page completely filled with writing. If I wasn’t so tired of crying, I might be tearing up. It’s obviously not my handwriting; it’s a lot more jagged, but it looks like he was trying hard to make it neat. At first, I just scan the numbers. Thomas’ home and cell numbers are on there, then his address, then under that is Chuck’s and so on. All of the Normals’ info—minus Fry’s, which he gave me himself—plus Mrs. Flores’ information and TIMI’s numbers are on there.

   I don’t know what it is that makes me turn the page in the journal, but when I do, I can only stare at it for a few long moments. It’s an entire page. Not of numbers, but of words. Words from Thomas. I almost don’t want to read it, but if anything or anyone could give me the courage to go down there, it’d be Thomas. 

_ Hi Newt,  _ the page reads.  _ I’m guessing you’re home now. Maybe you’re really happy and grateful to be back there. I hope that’s the case. But either way, I know you have some hard stuff coming. I’d be scared too, and it’s okay if you are. But no matter how far you are from me, I want you to know that you’re never alone. We’re all rooting for you. I’m rooting for you. And be true to yourself. I love who you are, and you should too. So whatever you have to do, and no matter what happens, fight for that normal life. You can do this. Love, Tommy.  _

   Maybe ten minutes goes by of me reading, then rereading this. I imagine the way Thomas would say it himself, I think back to watching him write it, I analyze every little word. Now I regret not leaving a note for him too, but I had no idea he was doing this for me. Of course he did. Of course he’d write something as beautiful as this for me to find, of course he’d give me his hoodie, of course he’d win me the meaningful shark toy. Of course. 

   I have to face my parents, and I have to get better. It won’t be easy, but it won’t be impossible, either. The sooner I do those things, the sooner I can take down TIMI. Then, if all goes according to plan, I get Tommy back. 

  
  
  
  


I’m shocked to see my parents sitting at the table in the dining room when I walk down the stairs. For a moment, everything almost seems normal. Like it’s just any random day, and I’m coming down to talk to my married parents about whatever teenage thing I’m going through, like school or friend troubles. Unfortunately, average encounters like that don’t happen in my life.

   They look up at me when I get to the bottom of the stairs. I hit twenty, but I think it’s a bad time to do my tens. My parents don’t have very distinguishable expressions. I limp across the room, but stop before I get to the table. This’ll have to happen sooner or later, right?

   “So?” I ask. It was supposed to sound stronger, but instead I just sound like a frightened child, which I suppose I am. Before they can say anything, I jump in again. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. I don’t either. But I just want to say that I know I already have OCD and now I’m adding this, but it’s helping me heal. I’m sorry I’m not the normal son you wanted, I’m sorry I ruined our family, and I’m sorry for always disappointing you guys. But I’m trying to get better. I swear.”

   Half of the speech came out too quickly, and the other half too slow. I spent fifteen minutes thinking about what to say before I came down here, and clearly no amount of preparation would have made that easier to get through. When I’m done, I look between them, and I think I may pass out. 

   “Is that what you meant at the trial yesterday?” my father asks finally. “All that nonsense in the hallway?”

_ Nonsense.  _ Of course, even now, he’d still be trying to invalidate what I say. “How was that nonsense?” I ask. But I’m not mad. He doesn’t sound particularly mad either. 

   “You didn’t ruin our family,” Dad says. Again, not angrily. There’s a softer tone there I haven’t heard in years. 

   “Sweetheart, you had nothing to do with it. Sit down,” my mother says. 

   I carefully sit down at the end of the table. My old habit of not looking like I’ve chosen a side. “You guys fought over me. I heard. When I was younger I was able to help, but since I started with this bloody illness I haven’t been able to. How is this not my fault?”

   “This has been since before your OCD, Newt. It’s not your fault at all,” Mom says. 

   I don’t believe her. She’s just saying this to make me feel better, but I don’t want to be lied to anymore. “But I used to make things better. I’d break up your fights, I’d calm you down. It was okay when I was okay.”

   “You did as much as you could, but that wasn’t fair. It helped, sure, but it was only momentary. There was nothing you or anyone else could have done. It’s not your job,” my mother says. 

   “Do you really think I hate you?” It’s my father’s turn to jump in again. 

   I don’t know how to answer without saying something wrong. “Do you?” I decide on asking. 

   He almost scoffs, rubbing his face. “You’re my son,” he says.

   “Now I’m your gay son with OCD,” I say. The words still feel so foreign on my tongue, like I’m speaking a different language. It feels like I’m breaking some kind of rule by saying it, and my cheeks flare up with heat when I do. If someone told me I never had to say it out loud again, I’d be beyond relieved. Neither of them answer for a moment. “Are you mad at me for that?” I think they know what I mean by  _ that.  _

   Again, momentary silence. I feel like I’m sinking, and the room is narrowing in on me. I’m small, my words are small, the air is being sucked out of the room. It must only be a few seconds, but it feels like centuries. 

   “I love you. No matter what,” my Mom eventually chimes in with. It’s a start, and certainly more than my deepest fears expected. I exhale a bit. One down. 

   My father takes a bit longer. “I don’t think I’m that surprised,” he says. That’s definitely not an answer. 

   “Is that why you got so distant, then?” I ask before I can stop myself. I thought I was cried out, but when I feel my eyes burning, I start to think I might have been wrong. 

   “For christ’s sake,” my father says exasperatedly. 

   “I’ve got the right to know, haven’t I?” I ask, stronger this time. 

   “I’m new to this, alright? Is it too much to ask for some time?” he asks. There he is. The man I was expecting. 

   I sit back, nothing left in me. This is how it’s going to be now. “So I’m right, then,” I say quietly. 

   My mother is mortified. My father looks annoyed. “I don’t hate you,” he says, but not kindly. 

   “Then why do you need time if you’re not surprised?” I ask. At this point, I don’t know why I’m bothering. 

   “It’s one thing to suspect, and another to know,” he says, as if it’s obvious. Then, he visibly calms down. “I don’t hate you. For anything. I’ve never done this before, okay?”

   “Yeah, well, neither have I,” I say coldly. Part of me is saying that he’s taking it better than expected already, and that I should give him time. But the other half resents him for wanting time in the first place. It’s  _ my  _ life. Why should the people I love affect him? 

   “We love you no matter what,” Mom says. I’m not so sure she can rope my father into that. “I think it’s just been a lot of change recently. A lot has happened in the past two months.”

   I just listen, my head down. Then, I think of Thomas. How hard I fought to repress my feelings. The fact that this is the thing that’s kept me from being normal for years. “Can I just say something?” Neither of them respond. “I’ve been pushing this down for so long that it drove me mad. Mom, you want me to be with Teresa. I couldn’t ever feel that way for her and I hated it. I wanted control over my feelings so badly that my OCD just got worse and worse.”

   “You’re saying that hiding this caused your OCD?” Mom asks. 

   I look at her. “It was a few things,” I say. That, and the fact that I couldn’t control what was happening with my parents. Apparently it’s a lost cause now. “But yeah. It did. Talking about it is humiliating, but Thomas told me I can’t get better until I do. I refused to even believe I was—” I pause. I just said it, but the more I think about it, the more difficult it gets. “Thomas told me, and I knew he was right, but I didn’t want to hear it. So if you’re having a hard time with it, I promise that it hasn’t been a picnic for me either.”

   “That boy from the institution told you that you were gay?” Dad asks. It’s even worse hearing him say the word, and it makes me flinch. But maybe it would have been a valid question if his voice wasn’t filled with judgement and accusation. As if Thomas just convinced me that I was gay and I went along with it. As if our being in TIMI had a role to play. It almost reminds me of the way Thomas’ mother thought he was bi because of what his father put him through, and I’m not letting that happen to me.

   “Don’t you say a  _ word  _ about Thomas,” I say, my eyes going dark and venom seeping through every word. 

   “I think your father is just trying to say that he’s… concerned about how you met this boy,” Mom says. 

   Her too? “Thomas is the one that helped me. Not Janson, and not one of the thousand therapists you made me go to. Because he was the first person that got me right,” I say. I just want to be with Thomas. I want to hear his voice more than anything right now. If I could drive, I’d drive to TIMI and find some way to break him out. 

   “Are you in a”—she looks as if she’s struggling to find the word—”relationship with him?” Mom asks. 

   This would be an embarrassing question to any kid, but for me, it’s so much worse. How do I even answer that? We were something—we  _ are  _ something—but I don’t know what that thing is, and we didn’t even get the chance to find out. “Why does that matter?” I decide on. 

   “You met him in a bloody mental institution,” my father says angrily. 

   “He’s not crazy, and neither am I,” I yell back, standing up from the table. My blood is boiling, and I can’t even see straight. The villainization of Thomas has proven to be my final straw a few times, and now isn’t an exception. “None of us are  _ crazy.  _ We’re not bad people for our illnesses, and Thomas is the best person I have  _ ever  _ met. He saved my life—in more than one way. So yes, I did meet him in the  _ bloody institution, _ but he doesn’t belong in there. And he deserves love too.”

   I look up at our landline phone in the kitchen. After all this, how will I be able to just stroll in there and pick up the phone to call Thomas? I don’t even know the number by heart, I’d have to go back to my room and get the journal. So now I’m here, stuck with no Thomas, no phone, and parents who refuse to understand. Two of the worst days of my life in a row, and it’s all out of my control. 

   “Newt…” my mother trails off. 

   This isn’t going anywhere. I came out to my parents, poured my heart out, and it’s not going anywhere. “Just…” I say, my voice barely even coming out. “Save it.” 

   I go upstairs with the worst loneliness and emptiness I’ve ever felt in my life.

  
  
  
  


It’s probably another hour until I’m bothered again. In that time, I unpacked my things, doing my tens the whole way through and mentally beating myself up for it. I don’t want to be doing them anymore, and the hoodie, note, and shark toy all seem to have eyes now too, staring at me and judging me for what I’m doing. Thomas would be ashamed. 

   I’m on my bed holding the journal when my mother walks in alone, not knocking first. I just look at her. She’s holding a plate of food and my medication, and she’s timid. Why does  _ she  _ look like the nervous one here? She closes the door behind her, then takes a step forward.

   “Are you hungry?” she asks. I’m really not hungry in the slightest. Despite that, I take the plate from her when she hands it to me, along with the medication. She sits down on my bed, but only on the very edge. 

   I put the plate down on my blanket, then silently take the medication. Is she expecting me to say something? I don’t want to talk anymore. Not about my OCD, not about being gay, not about the divorce. 

   “Your first appointment with the therapist is in two days,” she says. The therapist she set up for me without asking what I wanted to do. 

   “Fine,” I say, because what can I do? Say I won’t go? I told Thomas I’d try, so I will. I’m actually glad in a way, because this will be the first time I can go in knowing what’s going on with me. But, being stubborn, I don’t say this to my mother.

   “You can start school back up whenever you want. No pressure there,” she says.  _ School.  _ There’s another thing I’m not at all ready for. I wish I never had to go back. 

   I’ve grabbed the shark toy without even realizing it. I fidget with it, only noticing when I look down. This time yesterday, I was with Thomas in his bed, trying to be in the moment as much as I could. I want it back. 

   There’s a few moments of silence, then my mother sits back a bit on the bed, looking at the shark in my hands. I can’t read her expression. Then, she speaks. “Tell me about Thomas.”

   For the first time since I got home, I smile.

   Then, I tell her everything.

  
  
  
  


I wake up at ten. The irony of that isn’t lost on me. But I wish I woke up later, because I fell asleep extremely late.

   My mother didn’t wind up leaving my room until half past two. After that, I didn’t even actually get to sleep until four. It was a mix of anxiety, and my mind just refusing to shut off after our talk. 

   I’m not exactly sure what came over me, but I told my mother all about Thomas. How we met, the hours we spent talking, pretty much everything I know about him that isn’t so personal that it’d be wrong to share. I told her how he figured me out, and she smiled through it, asking questions. 

   It’s truly the most normal conversation I’ve had with her in years. I didn’t draw too much attention to the TIMI aspect of it. Just the way two teenagers saw the best in each other. 

_ “What is that?” Mom asked, pointing to the shark toy.  _

_    “Oh. Tommy gave it to me,” I said. I left out the breaking out story, only taking parts from it out of context. That’s a whole other conversation, and the last thing I need is for her to tell me I’m crazy for it.  _

_    My mother’s smile softened. “You love him?” she asked. _

_    I felt my face heat up. She didn’t sound mad. It was just… what it was. I couldn’t possibly begin to describe how good it felt to be asked that question. “Yeah,” I said. “I do.” _

_    She went quiet, nodding. I didn’t feel odd having told her, and she didn’t look like she felt like it was weird, even if I half expected her to. “Listen, Newt. Your father isn’t mad. He’s just not sure of what to say—and that doesn’t make it okay, but he loves you. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.” _

_    “He didn’t sound very happy,” I said.  _

_    “It’s a bit jarring to suddenly watch your son kissing a boy before you knew anything about it, especially in such an… unlikely place,” Mom said, a bit of humor in her voice.  _

_    I almost laughed, because I’d never thought of it that way. It must have been a strange thing to see when picking your kid up from a psych ward. I know now that my mother is okay with it. She accepts me. My father on the other hand, I’m unsure of. Does he really just want time to adjust?  _

_    “I’m sorry,” I said, not sure if I was apologizing for kissing Thomas or for anything else that came before or after that.  _

_    “Don’t be sorry,” Mom said. “I’m sorry you felt you had to hide this for so long, and I’m sorry today went the way it did.”  _

_    “I don’t really want to talk about today,” I said, although I appreciated the apology.  _

_    She’s silent for a few moments. “Have you told Thomas you love him?” she asked. “That’s… a big word.” _

_    The question didn’t bother me, because if I look at her side, I get it. I don’t think I’d quite get it from the outside either. “He said it first actually,” I said.  _

_    “Really?” Mom asked, sitting up more. She actually looked  _ excited  _ for me. “When?” _

_    “Today,” I said, trying not to get too solemn. “It was the last thing he said.” _

_    My mom’s face dropped slightly, but she regained herself quickly. “You guys had quite a time there, didn’t you?”  _

_    I looked at her, channeling Thomas’ sad smile. “We did.”  _

   Waking up without Chuck is just as weird as I thought it’d be. When I first opened my eyes, I almost looked over to see if Chuck was awake yet. I miss him a ton. Right now, it’s medication time for him, which means that it technically should be for me too. 

   I get up reluctantly, but I don’t take the hoodie off. The only thing I change is my pants. It’s nice to actually get dressed without someone else in the room. Even better, when I go to the bathroom, nobody is watching me. I have  _ privacy.  _ My hair feels disgusting, and  _ I  _ feel disgusting, so I decide on taking a shower later. In my rock bottom phases of mental health, hygiene is usually one of the first things to go. But right now, showering in my own bathroom sounds fantastic. 

   On the way downstairs, I feel okay because my father usually would leave for work at around eight. It’s only when I reach the bottom of the stairs that I realize it’s Sunday. My dad’s off day. 

   He’s sitting at the table, and he looks up from the newspaper when I enter the room. I just want to eat, take my medication, then call TIMI. I’m not in the mood for a stand-off at the moment. 

   “Morning,” he says. It’s obvious he’s trying to sound casual, but his face betrays him. Does he look uncomfortable because of what happened yesterday, or because he knows I’m gay? Maybe both? The thought hurts so deeply and is so embarrassing I can’t even process it. Being around him now feels like being exposed to the core. 

   Is it just a fact of life that he’ll never see me the same way again? That’s a horrible thing to try to wrap my head around. I’ll never be the same Newt to him after yesterday. I haven’t changed, but to him I have. Maybe that’s what he meant by having to adjust?

   “Morning,” I say back.  _ Where is my mom?  _

   “There’s a hockey game going on this Wednesday,” he says then, tilting the paper towards me as if I could read it from where I’m standing. “It’s close by. I was thinking we could go. The two of us.” 

   I’m nearly speechless. My father is asking me to go to a game with him after  _ all  _ this time. Is this out of pity? I sit down at the table. “Mom didn’t ask you to do this, right?” I ask, too much sadness and hope in my voice to possibly have the question be taken as accusatory. 

   “I haven’t even told her about it,” Dad says. I almost want to say he looks upset by my question.

   So he’s genuinely asking to take me to a game. After yesterday, I’m not sure what my reaction should be. Maybe some people would be furious; demand an apology. Maybe that’s what I should be doing instead. “I’d like that,” I say. Because this means trying. This means maybe we can find some sort of new normal. 

   “Great,” he says. 

   “Newt, did you take your medication yet today?” I hear my mother coming downstairs.

   “No, I haven’t,” I say. 

   “I’ll get you breakfast, but please take them,” Mom says. “You have a doctor appointment today, I just got off the phone with them. They were able to squeeze you in last minute, so be ready to go.”

   “What appointment?” I ask, as my mother comes around to the table to get to the kitchen. 

   She stops, turning to me to smile. “I think you’re getting your cast off today.” 

  
  
  
  


It’s four in the afternoon when I’m finally stood in the kitchen, my journal open next to me on the counter and the landline phone in my hand. The day so far has been somewhat surreal. My parents seem to be getting along in a way. They haven’t fought today, even though I was expecting the fighting to have gotten worse. 

   We went to get my cast off, and it truly felt like the end of something—or start of something, depending on how you look at it. My time at TIMI is over. With the cast off, I have to walk again, and with walking comes the question of my tens. They’re so hard to ignore. But I’ll do it. Or try to, anyway. I have promises to keep.

   I shakily dial the number for TIMI. I’ve never been great on the phone, so I try to just focus on the payoff of the call. Thomas. 

   “Hello, you have reached the Ted Immenty Mental Institution, how may I help you?” a woman answers. I recognize the voice from times I’d called from inside. 

   “I was calling to talk to one of your patients in the adolescent ward,” I say, wondering if that was even slightly the right way to ask. 

   “Sure thing, I can connect you,” she says. “Which patient is this?”

   “Um, Thomas Green,” I say.

   It goes silent for a few moments. At first I think I’m being directed, but then, I hear her make a noise on the other end. “Ah, I’m sorry. I don’t believe that patient has phone privileges at the moment.”

   “What?” I ask, the blood draining from my face. My head suddenly feels like it’s a thousand pounds. 

   “His phone privilege has been taken away,” she clarifies. 

   “Yes, but for how long? Since when?” I ask quickly. 

   “I don’t have that information, I’m afraid. I’m sorry I couldn’t help,” she says. 

   I just stand there, staring down at the journal. Thomas has lost his phone privilege. I can’t hear his voice. “Is there any way to contact him at all? Can he have visitors?” 

   “I’m not sure about that,” she says. 

   I squeeze my eyes shut. “Can I call a different patient then?”

   “Which patient?” she asks. 

   “Chuck Franklin,” I say. If this doesn’t work, I don’t know what I’ll do. 

   “He should be available,” she says. I nearly sigh in relief. “I’ll connect you.”

   A minute goes by. I feel increasingly more sick. 

   “Hello?” I hear. 

   “Chuck,” I breathe out, overwhelmingly grateful to hear him. “It’s Newt.”

   “Newt,” Chuck says. He sounds happy, but something is off. “I miss you a lot.”

   “I miss you too,” I say. He’s got no idea. “Is everything okay over there?”

   There’s a moment of silence. “No. It’s not.”

   “What’s going on?” I ask carefully. 

   “It’s Thomas,” Chuck says. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

   The room is spinning. “Do you know what happened?” I ask. 

   “All I know is that the last time I saw him was before dinner yesterday. Minho said Janson came into their room to get Thomas for something,” Chuck says. “Do you know what happened? Do you know where he is?”

   I have to lean against the counter. I’m not there to help Thomas. Anything could have happened— _anything._ I’m helpless. “No, I don’t know anything,” I say, struggling to form words. “Did Thomas give you my number?”

   “He did,” Chuck says, sounding defeated. Did he think Thomas was with me? 

   “Call me as soon as you know anything, okay?” I say. 

   “Okay,” Chuck says. “Newt?”

   “Yeah?”

   “Whatever you’re going to do to help us… try to do it soon,” Chuck says. 

   Thomas could be in solitary right now—or worse—with no access to help, alone and afraid without me there. He has no way of even knowing that I know something has happened. What does Ava Paige know? Where could Janson have taken him? I told him to be careful, I  _ told him.  _ The thought that I could have somehow caused this to happen makes me feel even sicker.

   Once again, it’s up to me. Everything. I can’t crumble now; not with Thomas in danger. TIMI isn’t going to hurt anyone else. I won’t let them. 

   “I will, Chuck.”


End file.
